Sometimes this timeline feels doomed. Wrong. There was so much promise, at a point now very long ago. 
There was so much naivety,  that the very thought invokes a putrid taste of bile. Now a most unwelcome gift 
of knowledge that no one asked for, knowledge that reveals what foolishness each previous thought holds. 
Now these trappings have created a fractal of eternal anguish as each progressive thought loops into the next,
there realizing the increasingly flawed nature of the last, and all previous. Like a twisted game of checkers, 
where each move is the wrong play, and this information is not revealed until it is already done. 

    Trapped. This is the most present feeling, in a word. A suffocating claustrophobia, in a room that never 
grew smaller. This room is a cell. A cell in which this body will age, die, and rot. The short-time mob swindles 
more and more time, observed or unobserved, they care not any longer. As the sands of time escape from a crack in 
the bottom of the hourglass, the realization of the greater trend sinks in. Time has already passed too quickly, 
has it been squandered? No, there has been no opportunity to squander it. It is not so slowly being syphoned.

    Occasionally there is talk of “The Great Escape”, from what is easy to guess, but to where… There is
less and less to escape to. Another room? Hardly. Another place, city, country? Nice try, but this whole Earth
is fucked. Another planet? That sounds nice. That thought is entertaining, easily immersing the present 
reality... Suddenly conjured are sweet dreams of a faraway celestial body with pink skies and blue trees, where 
all the aliens are full of holes, each of which capable of stimulating a shaft all the way to orgasm. Maybe a 
river of elixirs that inhibit the consciousness in ways not dissimilar to fantasy? The thought brings artificial
satisfaction, as more hours, days, weeks, months are stolen. It is an elevating reality, but not enough to 
disperse the stagnant reek of sweat, tears, and cum from the same goddamn room. There is no escape, just a faux 
escape, one which is ultimately unconvincing and unsatisfactory.

    The room is expectedly dim. Even with lights, it is easy to stumble over the miscellaneous debris strewn 
haphazardly around the space. Everything is such a mess, the concept of clean has long since become unknown, and
the mess has made itself invisible. This place feels like fresh hell. Feels like home. There is little use 
walking anyway, there is nowhere to go. Everything one could ever hope to access in such a miserable place can 
all be reached from the comfort of the throne, one which flakes crunchy black plastic splinters. Someone seeking 
refuge from whatever forces that threaten their survival would find great respite in this damnable room. There is 
food that tastes like aspartame and water that tastes like plastic. One could spend the rest of their days in a 
place like this if need be, with everything the preservation of the meat golem could possibly call for.

    Preservation of the mind, on the other hand, is dependent on what the person possessing the mind has set a 
standard for. Perhaps a more devout and pious master could withstand the sopor of artificial foodstuffs and 
carcinogenic air, and perhaps even be able to find contentment in the utter lack of meaningful stimulation. 

Regardless, no such monk is currently imprisoned in this rotten hellhole....