We talk like we have a purpose to think. I talk because I think someone listens and I will care. As I sit I feeling emptier; as I write I feel my words are hollow. I sit on a cold stone floor with a window that keeps moving further way from me. I can remember when I felt the ocean air on the other side of the window; how beautiful. The window has been moving each day, each hour, each blink. I can almost no longer see it. The warmth the sun brought in from the window is just a fading memory. My only friend is the darkness that seems to be growing more each day. The floor is so cold... it shows me that I am trapped in this jail. There is no door to this cell, no warmth, no body there to talk with. I grow impatient with this cell. My hope of finding a door way out becomes more and more fading. The darkness is the only thing that seems to warm me yet of late.