the walls were those of an apartment,
not a prison.
but it made no difference,
in his mind.
he was behind them,
inside.
without these walls, he thought,
and started picking away.
dust of sheetrock falling to the floor,
forming cone-shaped piles by his feet.
picking, picking with a screwdriver,
dust falling, falling.
like sand in the hourglass,
falling.
time, he thought,
it kept on ticking, ticking.
and when would he be free?
sweating, he could not stop, then
WHACK! with the hammer.
the tingeling light!
the fresh air!
back to picking, picking
reaching for that climax.
the dust,
the hourglass filling up.
faster! one finger through
faster! one arm through
faster, faster!
and then comes the head,
and with the head comes the climax.
sweet release, sweet freedom! - for a moment.
but now,
as the children are crying on the sidewalk,
and the dust is settling all around
-only now can he see himself.
his face poking through a hole in his house.
covered in dust.
covered in shame.
and he thinks to himself, what a fool i am.
