burialrabbits

Dear Neil Garriscond,

They have your clothes folded up, placed into a small cardboard box that is now damp with must and heat, along with the keys to your car, your dress shoes and your spectacles. And no matter how handsome you may be when the sun's gone down, the brightly colored suit they've given you is tacky; it does not fit you, for the sleeves bunch up when you raise your hands above your head, and the pant cuffs stick on your padded slippers. When you pull yourself toward the bars at night, watching the moon glower in the stadium-like hallway of the prison, you wonder when you'll see your friends again. And the girl with tears in her eyes who sits alone at night now nursing small cups of cold medicine so that she can fall asleep quite dizzy, heavily, not waking until noon the next day, or never.

Slowly, the voices come up from every other tiny room where someone is locked inside, all clamoring for whats next. But nothings ever next. Excepting the very few with a dwindling count to climb, theres nothing ever just next.

And in dreams, youre counting turtles slinking below the teeth of the fence.

Signed,
Pellborough.