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It was written somewhere. On a wall, perhaps. I remember seeing it, and writing it down. Tacking it to the cork strip at home. I remember looking at it. Every time you've been mad at me; every time you've angered me, I see it. And I think, "This is what they mean" because of all the things I want to say, I can't say any of them. I'm trapped behind them, within them, within me. Hiding behind the words like bars gives me comfort, though, because here you can not touch me. You may visit, but only during visiting hours, and there is a pane of glass between us. Our words. No more knives.

I sweep the floor of my prison cell and I read your old letters. I hear your old pleas in the moans of the other inhabitants of this old building, and in the rattling of the chains on the ghosts. And sometimes I smile, but mostly I think, "When will my time be served? My debt be repaid? When will I be square with the house again?" Your house.

In the yard, we play games. We have moments of levity. I am not here alone, you know. And everyone else has a you. Someone they're hiding from, someone they're running from. Someone they miss, and love and loathe; Someone they are dying to hold just once more. We all understand that this purgatory is self-made, and we are free when we choose to let go, and to open the door. But, that's hard. We've invested so much in you, we don't want to see our investment go to waste. "Prove me wrong," I mouth to the air. To no one. To myself. Time heals all wounds? Time sets souls free. Time will set me free, from this Prison House of Language. One day I will be able to walk down the street, to walk right past you, and not be bound to my hope that you will acknowledge me again, that you will say my name. But until then, I've a lot to think about, and a lot of time and space to do it in.

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