as the movie showed them, and the ancient stacked cells' rack,
They make me a crayon and my face, even when my heart is tempted
to repent, the crayon of my face, these doors, the bars, nothing like the movies,
my memory nothing like a commercial, rather like the property I didn't want and purchased at the cost of years--like that, gone. These bars, could they be a staff? And my voice, could it be music?