I look around and see no one paying
any particular attention to me, they guys around me either sleeping or absorbed
in some prurient or generally disturbed interest. My right index finger goes digging for gold. It finds some. I
extract my finger and a greenish white slug detaches from the inside of my
nostril. I curl my index finger back. I aim my hand in some general direction
away from my cube, trying not to make it obvious, as if it was just a gesture of
putting my arm back at my side after scratching an itch on my nose. As my arm
is in its moderately slow down-slide arc, my index finger launches/flicks its
burden into space. It has always amazed me that if you followed the launch of
your mucus from you finger, it seems to sometimes disappear mere inches from
your finger, it’s arc of flight only known to God and the angels.
I come back from the bathroom and
notice an index card that someone had taped to the little wall next to my bed.
It could have been there for some hours as I had no reason to pay attention to
this area, as I floated on the currents of my own daydreams and preoccupations.
As I passed I looked down to see what it read.
“WE WILL FIND YOU”, it read
ominously in some inmates imprecise scrawl.
Inwardly I laugh gleefully. Perhaps you will.
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