The sudden burning that plisters the soft skin of my neck comes down in a blast of heat and, almost, a welcome relief from the false, stuffy, conditions air of the clostrophobic walls of the forced prison for the inoccent.
The black heat raises up through the rubber souls on my yes-I-need-new-ones shoes, threatening to melt them away and leave me standing in a sticky, bubbling pool, but all I wish is to kick away the broken, tight cell for my feet and run across the burning heat of the ground until the plisters on my feet's bottom match those on my neck.
The constant skrieching of a far off, unwanted bird brings a welcoming sound compared to the harsg echos of empty halls and pens scratching at the surface of dead trees now thin sheets and leaving the tattooed brand of misspelled and misused pointless words.
However all the torchers of the outside world must be left in their proper places, while those others who don't belong must be herded back into their twenty by twenty, false lit, false cooled, hallow, so called rooms (better to be cells) once the phepard desides it is long pass the mark of when they should have been seated.
So into your chairs, remove your dead-tree sheets and pens so you may write on the outside observations you made while amongst the natrual beauty, but you must stay in your uncomfortable, poorly-lit, unwanted cells that rest inside the walls of the prison for the innocent.