Atmosphere

I stare at the ceiling for no reason at all. I have memorized it crack for crack, categorized each water-damage mark like a map of the stars. My stars. My sky.

I hear the drip-drop of a faulty faucet; constant, my only measure of time here. It doesn't matter.

At 3,215, my thoughts turn to a familiar scene: The guards, with their guns like heirlooms, closing in on a boy wearing only innocence.

He looks at me, and my gown of apathy; and his eyes scream, _do something_ But I turn away.

Sloth alone is the sovereign of my universe.

I could cry, but that would mean something.