Sleep is fitful and only possible after the exhaustion of constant shifting around and adjusting the stones that are my bed. It feels like my body has been covered in blows - the rocks are bruising me. Its getting colder. The sun is lower; It beams through a window and illuminates the details of what hovers above me. I am one of those web bound carcasses. As it darkens, the chirps and squishes begin -- shadowy flutters of darting fantoms swirl above me. They seem to be attracted by my presence -- often diving at me and bombing me with their droppings. The smell grows fouler by the day; my toilet is my bed. In the beginning he would come and stand over me; staring, pissing, playing with himself. Today, when he brought me the slop, he was wearing a gas mask.
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