#017

I don’t know if anyone will get to read this, but they’ve held us captive for… I’m unsure of how long, exactly, but at least a few weeks, now. I have been locked without human contact in a cell fashioned 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 blanks.

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.