The other prisoners–convicts, or hell to whatever they are called! They huddle together now for warmth, for as the winter holidays approach it seems as if the warmth escapes from every crevice in the ground; the cold nestles in the headwalls and in our heads–she nestles! The hyperborean winds dictate our minds, for I have seen full men lose what is left of their sanity due to the Siberian winds–if anything is left! I am frantic, for that is the only way I can truly define this predicament I have found myself in; I am perfectly sane–bless me–perfectly fine, and naming my condition shall only bring the corruption of the people. Tell me if there are still real people beyond these walls, for I can hardly tell! I have not seen a real man, one far from the “siberian illness” that makes one fear penance and water, ever since the world spun and spinned. Oh, in truth, I am frantic to write what my mind sings to me, for I swear she sings. She sings, and I have not the tools to write! I wish to write upon the prison walls, but I am sure they shall know: I am not an inquisition artist–ha! Shall I paint my walls? I should not, no–I cannot. 

They promised us a drink and an extra serving for Christmas if we swore we were Orthodox Christians, and I swore I was! Oh, I begged on my knees and prayed solemnly with the other men, but I am sure I was not convincing; the other men prayed as if they may very well die doing so! Indeed, you would turn them over, and the frostbite would fuse their cadaverous hands in the most baroque fashion! Indeed, you would turn them over, debating whether they are dead or simply bloating, and they would be one with ground. Ha—you would yell at the men, “We’re liberated and the prisons are over!” They whisper to you, “Oh, we are not, for what be of socialism if she dons classes?” and they certainly speak the truth. 

“I am Christian–praise! I am Christian!”

“And you are baptized?”

“Oh, I am Christian!” 

I am sure it has been weeks; I would think it be months if I did not see the spring still had not arrived! What be of her delay? Has her flight chosen a warmer route, for I would not blame her? Why would a plane, bless her, in its infinite mechanical freedom, choose to travel to the artics? Ha–no reason; I am so tired. 

I am sure I was not supposed to know, but they hand out medication to some of the worst of the men: the siberian illness victims! Oh, their brains have surely frozen off in chunks, but they give them the medicine, for what fun of torturing the insane? No fun! 

Oh, they tell you, “Take the medication in my hands,” a pause for emphasis, “you have this, and, most certainly, you have that!” You take it? Oh, you take it! I chose not to, and now I can see what those artists saw! The enlightenment! The renaissance! I see the movement of the starry night upon my walls, and she dances! I am obsessed with her, and I am most definitely in love. Only, why must I be in obsessed and sickened and not sincerely in love: “Love is rather boring when there are no souls lost and obsession is taboo.” No, I am fully in my senses and not bored! Indeed, I am so dearly in love with insanity’s course black hair and emaciated cheekbones, for the more detailed her features become, the more my heart speds and speeds.

Surely I am beyond creation? For whom thought like I did? The pretty European men and women who littered and corrupted the cafes with their pretty pen coats and eyeliner that wrapped around their head; surely the “beyond” could not be them? This power I behold, this misery that taunts me, furthers my creativity–is this enlightenment? Am I enlightened? No, I shall be not for there is no light beyond this condition, and endarkened just sounds rather silly, as if she was a primary school poem: “If I am enlightened then who be ‘endarkened’? That is what the teacher would ask, and there would be no answer for what word could that be? Dictionaries and linguists would be scattered! Frightened! Quite paranoid! Just as I am as of now, if words were created as such. 

“How frightening!” The teacher would announce. “How frightfully so,” I would answer, for words cannot be created as such. Opposites of words, although sometimes quite obvious in their opposing opposition, are typically rather random: ignorant, benighted, philistine. Yes, it would be rather scary if people talked as such: “I am unhappy with how this un-friendly meetup is going, for the un-morning is approaching, and we have hardly un-kept to ourselves!” would say the pretty european to the handsome european, and they would both be miserable! Who said it: Socrates, Marx, Plato? Oh, Socrates! That is the lesson from words, for without them we are miserable and limited, which history knew—except reverse that and spin it once, for Socrates thought the opposite. They knew, for they kept words a secret because they were so powerful and mysterious, meant only for men, just as they kept love marriages from women for fear of revolt! Moreover, once found, the women did revolt! Revolt they did, with their short skirts and pretty words! 

“Oh, bless me–bless me!” I announced.

“You seem rather ill,” said this wonderful man.

“Oh, ill is such a benign word! I am merry! I am in love with this illness, and love is so addicting–love is so addicting that I would sell my soul for another day of this being ill and begging for freedom, for if I was free I would sell my soul to be trapped again!”

“And you are content?” 

“I wish nothing but for the contraband pen in my hands and the carols on the walls.”

“There are no carols on the walls,” said the sad man. 

“The carols on the walls!”

The sad man dropped dead, but that is to be rather expected, as the Christmas season brings the utmost deaths. 

I am so tired, but the snow is rather pretty; the snow says, “Oh, I just keep falling, but when shall I fly?” Yet, does she not see when you turn your head upside up she starts to fly? She flies, and I am still here waiting until someone contorts their head for me.

 Oh, they tell me they shall give me medicine, forcefully so! The dread! The terror! Where shall I be without you, my love? Shall I emigrate beyond the Berlin walls? The separation of utter loss of hope to the facade of hope resembled those great Berlin walls—great as referring to the mass, of course; heavens, both sides were as miserable as the other, but one was funded generously simply to abolish hope of the other: the facade of hope. Once she did fall, the two snowmen looked at one another PROFOUNDLY, for they both melted profusely! 

Oh, the cold is so manipulative; ever since I fell to this cold illness, I feel as if I am doomed to create, and that is the most draining prison of creativity, but here I am creating; I am as unsure and embarrassed as Franz Kafka and Steinbeck, yet where be my Nobel Peace Prize? In the headwalls? In the headwalls!

I think I shall lay down now. I am frightfully cold, and I will never become a good author if my brain freezes over–ha! I shall lay down now. I shall lay right here. I am so awfully tired. Oh–so awfully tired, and when you close your eyes the cold becomes this comforting breeze; I am tired.