Silence

Battered, beaten, and berated.

Relentless. Ubiquitous.

I pray for silence.

Silently.

While his lips move, dare I fathom the orgasmic release which would surely be forthcoming as my fist burst forth, crushing his words.

Talk down to this, motherfucker!

Not one who has ever brought Oscar home has given a performance worthy of that which I now give – wrapped up in pretension, so much so that he thinks his words reach me in some way. That I aspire to his greatness.

Try not to puke.

I seek exit, but find none. None, that is, save the one about which Thoreau wrote. My prison is not external. The illusion does not bind. All-encompassing, impotent noise.

Incessant thunder, wind, and rain pummels. Yet that inside is untouched, protected from the elements as long as I choose.

I chose to build the wall long ago.

Silence.