There is then feet of concrete above my head, the only thing that separates me from instant, honorless death.

Ten feet of heavy basalt beckoning my life, sinking over me like a death cavalry, incarcerating me to my chamber of life. It is permanently saving me from the torture of daylight, that unabashed daylight that surges down as if the day is like the others of the past

—as if all that remains naked on earth is not the rotten flesh and the weeping ruins of our town.

But in my hallow of life, there is no false hope. There is no light unless I wish there to be. There is no sight except for the sound of my feet on the ground.

There is bliss in movement.

There is peace in progression.

I come from the above world, where people have seen real desolation.

Time passes. But in the darkness of the hallow, there is no night. The ceiling of the tunnel drops silvery droplets on the ground:

Water keeps living where there is no life.