To be alone is a thing quite hard to describe in tangible words. It creates a set of emotions unlike love or hate, which can be easily elaborated upon in the spoken or written word. Such were the feelings of the man as he sat, very much alone, in his cell. He had nothing much at all in his little cubicle. It’s walls were white, so very, very white, a color (or lack thereof) that had come to enrage the man after so many years. It was so blank. nothing but an occasional swirl in the even paint, which he had memorized long ago during the hours and hours of boredom he was forever tortured by. The stark whiteness was broken only by the stainless steel toilet in the corner, which he was only allowed to flush a certain amount of times a day, and A little camera that monitored his every move. There was no window. Not even bars, like a normal cell. The only contact he had with the outside world was through a tiny hole, through which food was slid thrice daily. the food was bland and always the same for the three meals. Breakfast was eggs on toast. Lunch was pasta with an awful red sauce that smelled rather like a sweater left out in the rain. Dinner was a slab of some sort of butcher shop rejection, most definitely not Spam or Lunch meat, but a ancient looking piece of what looked like multicolored fat molded into a square. Such was his life. He never knew what time it was, for he had no watch or clock, and the light in the cubicle was always the exact same thing every hour of everyday in every year. Dull white light coming from a single tubular light bulb affixed to the ceiling. Most of all, there was total, absolute, and utter silence. It was broken only by the flush of the toilet, the opening of the trapdoor that brought the food, the chewing and swallowing of the food, and when he could stand the stillness no longer, he would sometimes burst into song and dancing, just for the sake of shutting out the deafening silence. Insanity was not far off. One day (or night, he didn’t know which) he awoke from a nap and determined he would no longer tolerate it. He thought of that judge, who had sentenced him to these many years in solitude, he thought of the officer who had arrested him. He thought of his escape. He plotted it well.