As the time has gone on and I’ve returned to my self, I have looked out of my eyes to the world around me. A small world now. I glimpse it only through cracks in the sheets of stone stacked from top to bottom of the window. Between each is an upright sliver of this awful place and I am assailed by the images of that day. My hands doing the doing. Regret is too slight a word for it all. I sit in horror. I don’t deserve to die, I deserve to live. I search out new methods of pain
