Resting pipes, verse of bore
Rusting keys without a door

Song of Myself – Nightwish

White. The colour of the walls. White. The colour of the ceiling. White. The colour of the floor. White. The too large shirt I'm wearing. White. Everything surrounding me is white. White, white, white and even more white. The only bits of colour are the blues and greys that are visible through a tiny window, and even there is white. White are the clouds in the sky, the foam on the waves and the stars at night. There's also the coppery colour of the rusted pipes coming through the walls, only to disappear through the ceiling again. I don't know why they're there or what they're for. All I know is that they aren't white.

The room I'm in is circular. A circle, sign of endlessness, eternity. If I put my bony hand on the wall and start walking, tracing it, there is no end, no corner to signal the wall's end. There isn't a door either. No way in or out. How I came here I do not know, all I know is that I am here.

There's no way to keep track of the passing of time. I could have been here a few hours, but it could just as well been years. The view outside the window changes, day turns to night and night turns to day, put I don't really think time exists in here. I never get hungry, or thirsty, or sleepy. It's as if time stands still in here, but continues to tick away outside.

White. Everything surrounding me is white. Or not. There are drops of blood on my shirt. Bright red splatters and drips, as well as some copper stains. And the wall, it has copper stains as well. Stains shaped into letters, who, combined, form words, words that make a sentence. Sentences which, once combined, form a verse. But it's meaningless. Born out of white and boredom. A verse of bore, saying nothing despite being made up out of words.

There's a hook, hammered into the wall. A collection of keys dangling from it, old rusting keys. The way they're hanging there, like keys beside a front door. Except, there is no door. No door to get in or out, only keys.

Still I'm sitting here, bony legs drawn up to my chest, a chest with every single rib poking out. Equal bony arms are wrapped around my bony knees. Waiting. Still waiting. Endlessly waiting. Endless, like the round wall making up this round room.