A Twelve Year Night 🆓

"If I get out, I will never close a door behind me again. Never."

Night after night, the men whispered through the wall. Not politics. Not poetry. Just the small truths: a twelve year night

"I dreamt of bread. Fresh bread. With butter. Is that a sin?" "If I get out, I will never close a door behind me again

The twelfth year arrived without fanfare. By then, the men had become something other than human. Not animals—animals still have instinct. They had become stone . Stone does not weep. Stone does not beg. Stone simply endures. Not poetry

In the beginning, the men counted. They counted the footsteps of the guards. They counted the number of times the steel door groaned open to push in a bowl of cold gruel. They counted the days on the wall with a stolen nail. 1, 2, 3… 30… 365. But after the first year, the numbers lost their meaning. The nail broke. The wall crumbled under invisible scratches.