Suppose, afterall
In the small chamber
Inside which he found himself
It was not sadness
That overcame him
Nor isolation
Once, always bored
Now, lightness

So it was for Sasha.

in a different small chamber
Yuka’s father woke up
In a plain room with no windows
a fireplace, large sofa, desk
He has no sense of day
There is only a clock
And a calendar for his own maintenance
A billion sentences spiral down
“Write a story”
“Write a story”
“Write a story”
In itself, himself,
His tribulation with writing
Was meditated as being THE story
His ideas are swatted
They are flies
Appearing five minutes before 4:00pm
Every Thursday
A tall red man with a triangle head appears in the room
And from Alex, the story is demanded
“Are you finished yet?”
“Did you finish what I’ve asked?”
Alex puts the instant noodle bowl down
He scans through his beard
Indifferently eyes cast down
Alex stands up and goes to the writing desk
Small yellow pages are strewn across it
Falling onto the floor
Autumn leaves
His bare feet stepping into rejects
He brings one page back to noodle table,

“Seven centimeters from my toe rides the robber, quite the troubled man, and a froggy face.
He clings onto his dirty parcel as he runs, inside, my old cell phone shrunken to fit into the
canvas bag. a bar of soap in a sock. He reaches a few meters, dissipearing from sight, into a
cheese hole in the wall. If it hadn’t been for the random advertiser calling my phone, id never
had known my phone was stolen. Shrinking myself, i am the cat, furrily stealing after the robber.
‘Ill catch you! Mischeif man, and hang you by your little mischief toes and you’ll be so overwhelmed
by yours and mine own mischief you'll only be able to scream ohhhh such mischief! Ohhh the mischief!!!”

Alex put the note down.
“Until you write a story, our work is incomplete”
Alex taps fingers on the table, eyes rejected, but so bored, for this sequence was likely the thousandth
The man was then gone
A bouquet of flowers in the corner of the room
Was this the beginning of Alex's story?
The bouquet disappeared
Another hallucination
He put the noodle bowl onto the floor
Into it he dipped the yellow note just read aloud
So He said aloud
But quietly
In his dream
Intonation changing each sentence
His monologue:
“A bouquet of roses in the corner of my room. for a millisecond.
A bouquet of roses in the corner. In the corner. A bouquet of roses.
For a second. A rose for a second. For a second, a rose.
Yeah, for a second. Just a second. A bouquet of roses.
The corner of the room. The plain white wall.
You just missed it.
It was there for only a second.”

He stopped. He stopped. He stopped. He stopped. He stopped.

He is a stopper.