Paragraph on Solitude:

Standing stone encloses my dungeon. Stains from black smoke etch themselves into the walls that surround me. On one side is a shelf full of glass jars. Leading from the top of the ceiling all the way down to where my toes are. Enough to last me a lifetime. Nobody is here. Not even the mice shit here. Nor will a spider weave itself into a corner. The songs from outside fill up the room sometimes. There is a small set of iron bars set into the top of the back wall. Where I will hear a very rare passing of life. The sounds meet my ears and I close my eyes to imagine the entirety of the passer. Who or what it is. Which ranges. I believe I heard the scattering of leaves. A whisper of the wind that sunk to my level. Hooves crossing a bumpy track. The laughing of men and then a damned stream of warm piss that fell onto my back from the hole. Even if it ended in a three day rock scrubbing, I still held onto it like a rare jewel. I stuffed more blackened pine into my pipe and sat down staring up into the bars. Eager to hear something new. Feel something that used to capture my freedom. 

(Image credit to Fritz Schwimbeck)