#017

I don’t know if anyone will get to read this, but here goes. They’ve held me captive for… come to think of it, not sure how long, exactly, but at least a few weeks. I have been locked without human contact in a cell. Not just any normal prison cell, it’s made to look like my old bedroom in my parent’s house.

It’s eerily accurate in many ways, down to the creases of my favorite pages in a Hustler I stole from my neighbor, way back in 1983. It’s vintage now, from 1981. Very vintage. I don’t know if that detail is important. But there are some striking differences in the pages, which, I will add, seem deliberate. All of the faces of the girls in the porno are rubbed out. The same is true for a few other magazines and also my comic books and my yearbooks. My G.I. Joe’s heads are just fleshy thumbs without thumb prints.

And in the center of the ceiling, aimed down at me, where the light used to be, is what I can only gather is a reproduction of that painting, The Lovers, by Magritte.

I think I got a little desperate to see a face, because I peeled back the paint with my (now grossly overgrown) fingernails as carefully as I could, just in case whoever painted it left faces behind the shrouds. I only revealed a thin, glowing film of microchips, though.

I get the sense there are more rooms… maybe even right next to mine.