My room is dark now, save for my lamp with its narrow beam of light.

I am surrounded by clutter, chaos, catastrophe; they say prison cells are bare, but mine is all too
busy. Everything in the world sits on my floor, waiting for me to trip over it and fall.

And yet I find a certain poise. I’ve carved a staircase for myself, where I can sit and rest or see
the outside.

The sun is down now, but will soon return—and the sunbeams pouring through the window will
warm my face.