tail end.
“Get in there. Go on, get to it!”
I smell a female. Where is her life? She stands motionless; she awaits me. I mount her.
You are cold. You never speak. I love you. I love you, here in the room. I love you, though you are still as death. They watch me closely. I grunt and cling to your cold body. I have learned to do this, to drive myself into you. I drive into your body, slip and fall and rise again, entering you once more. I hang clumsily, puffing, strained, excited. They jeer at me, as I struggle to fill you. It rises up through me. It rises to the top, it goes out of me. I leave it inside of you. I love you; cold and silent.
“All right, move!”
He strikes me and drives me away from her. Our meetings are always like this—brief and silent. Sometimes I dream of you; your silent, hidden body.
I return to my cell. Food has been put out for me and I eat it down. I’m always eating. I’ve nothing else to do. I’ve grown so fat I can hardly stand.
What am I?
If I could get outside this room, I might be able to learn something. Once I saw a great many of the older inmates leave the room and they never returned. Did they learn something?
Where are they now?
There is so much I don’t know. Why do they lead me to the cold female? Is this part of their great understanding?
They must know so much, for they go outside the room.
I feel that my life here is not permanent; I firmly believe that one day I too will leave the room.
I stare into the corner of my cell. There is straw and water. The voices of the other inmates float in the air, but none of them has an answer. None of them knows the secret of the room—how it came into being, why we were born here, and where we are going.
I must have slept. I sleep a great deal and eat a lot. The inmates are whispering and grunting about something. Occasionally one of us has a nightmare or some little thought that seems brand-new. It quickly makes the rounds of all the cells and then fades into obscurity. Which of us could ever say with certainty: I know what’s outside; I know what awaits us.
Nonetheless, we listen to this latest dream. One of the inmates has had a wild vision. My neighbor grunts the substance of it through the walls of his cell. He dares not come too close to me or peer over at me, for he knows I will strike at him with all my clumsy might if he does.
“A vow has been taken.”
“A vow?”
“A powerful creature has taken a vow. He has sworn to save us.”
“Who is he?”
“I feel him in my sinew. His strength is great. It’s a fiercely knotted power.”
A jumble of images invades me, memories that are my most sacred possession: a little patch of green grass and a bit of a winding path. I saw these once, when the great doors swung open. And I see them now, once again, in my mind. For that’s what a savior would mean to me—the green grass and a little path struck by warm gentle light.
But the savior is just the mad vision of one of our inmates. There have been many strange dreams here. They come and go, but the mechanical winds are constant. They soon blow away all dreams, all visions, all saviors.
“Come on! Get out!”
The guards! The doors!
Everyone is moving. We’re all being moved. Weak-kneed, stumbling, we walk. Waddling, falling, I make my way toward the door. There is the grass! There is the little winding path! Has the savior really come?
So this is the day! The day, the streaming light, the little winding path. My heart leaps—look how far the eye can see. Look at the distant green!
Vast! Tremendous! Beyond believing—the world is large as a hundred rooms! In the air there hangs a great blazing light. What a room this is!
“The vow has been fulfilled!”
“We’re free!”
“Look! How much we can see!”
Along the little winding path we go. The path is soft and so wonderful to look at. Walking is difficult, but even so, even so…
“Go on! Get up there!”
The path has ended. A ramp lies before
“Get in there. Go on, get to it!”
I smell a female. Where is her life? She stands motionless; she awaits me. I mount her.
You are cold. You never speak. I love you. I love you, here in the room. I love you, though you are still as death. They watch me closely. I grunt and cling to your cold body. I have learned to do this, to drive myself into you. I drive into your body, slip and fall and rise again, entering you once more. I hang clumsily, puffing, strained, excited. They jeer at me, as I struggle to fill you. It rises up through me. It rises to the top, it goes out of me. I leave it inside of you. I love you; cold and silent.
“All right, move!”
He strikes me and drives me away from her. Our meetings are always like this—brief and silent. Sometimes I dream of you; your silent, hidden body.
I return to my cell. Food has been put out for me and I eat it down. I’m always eating. I’ve nothing else to do. I’ve grown so fat I can hardly stand.
What am I?
If I could get outside this room, I might be able to learn something. Once I saw a great many of the older inmates leave the room and they never returned. Did they learn something?
Where are they now?
There is so much I don’t know. Why do they lead me to the cold female? Is this part of their great understanding?
They must know so much, for they go outside the room.
I feel that my life here is not permanent; I firmly believe that one day I too will leave the room.
I stare into the corner of my cell. There is straw and water. The voices of the other inmates float in the air, but none of them has an answer. None of them knows the secret of the room—how it came into being, why we were born here, and where we are going.
I must have slept. I sleep a great deal and eat a lot. The inmates are whispering and grunting about something. Occasionally one of us has a nightmare or some little thought that seems brand-new. It quickly makes the rounds of all the cells and then fades into obscurity. Which of us could ever say with certainty: I know what’s outside; I know what awaits us.
Nonetheless, we listen to this latest dream. One of the inmates has had a wild vision. My neighbor grunts the substance of it through the walls of his cell. He dares not come too close to me or peer over at me, for he knows I will strike at him with all my clumsy might if he does.
“A vow has been taken.”
“A vow?”
“A powerful creature has taken a vow. He has sworn to save us.”
“Who is he?”
“I feel him in my sinew. His strength is great. It’s a fiercely knotted power.”
A jumble of images invades me, memories that are my most sacred possession: a little patch of green grass and a bit of a winding path. I saw these once, when the great doors swung open. And I see them now, once again, in my mind. For that’s what a savior would mean to me—the green grass and a little path struck by warm gentle light.
But the savior is just the mad vision of one of our inmates. There have been many strange dreams here. They come and go, but the mechanical winds are constant. They soon blow away all dreams, all visions, all saviors.
“Come on! Get out!”
The guards! The doors!
Everyone is moving. We’re all being moved. Weak-kneed, stumbling, we walk. Waddling, falling, I make my way toward the door. There is the grass! There is the little winding path! Has the savior really come?
So this is the day! The day, the streaming light, the little winding path. My heart leaps—look how far the eye can see. Look at the distant green!
Vast! Tremendous! Beyond believing—the world is large as a hundred rooms! In the air there hangs a great blazing light. What a room this is!
“The vow has been fulfilled!”
“We’re free!”
“Look! How much we can see!”
Along the little winding path we go. The path is soft and so wonderful to look at. Walking is difficult, but even so, even so…
“Go on! Get up there!”
The path has ended. A ramp lies before
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