I don't know how long I've been here.

Days roll into endless weeks, and as time slips away this room, these walls are closing in on me.

I feel as though I am becoming blind; all I see is grey, grey walls, floor and bed, grey all around me, like a ceaseless storm.

And even in this tempest I am alone; in solitude nonetheless I am unique, green and repugnant in a dulled world. I alone could manage to be obscenely abnormal within my solitude. A constant reminder of my reason for punishment.

The few timid golden rays of light which infiltrate my musty abode simply highlight my dank existence; for the dark is a shadowed veil to which I am grateful.

This room is void of life.

Even on the warmest of summer days there is a crisp edge to the morbid air surrounding me. Sometimes, a solitary spider, appearing through invisible cracks in the grey, may appease my yearning for company, but only for a short while.

I can still remember a time when, if I concentrated, I could envisage a blue sky, with white fluffy clouds over emerald grass and shimmering lakes... But now even that image has turned grey and stale, dimmed to blackness.

Every night, as I curl up in my sullied bed, I say a small prayer. I pray that I will not wake up tomorrow morning, I pray that tonight I can stay dreaming forever, for even my dreary dreams are happier then this existence.

And every morning, as I wake up, I am sentenced to life once again.