They made us stare out the windows all morning, and we didn't mind. Only, we weren't allowed to touch the glass that separated us from the greenery.
The other dude hated me for not getting with the program, unlike the others who want to get the revolution going but what can you do. We're famous for what we create.
Instead, I sat near the porch-like areas and started drinking beer and started making songs.
No one understood this. They all wanted to kill me.
They threw things, at the walls, which were impenetrable, at each other, at me. They kissed, made loud, angry sex, searched everybody's pockets for pills and injectibles. They sang songs of death and desolation and of losing lovers in war and mothers in strange, unexpected accidents.
I'd cry when they're not looking.
All I wanted was for one of them to touch me. What they didn't know, what I had in my heart (in my blood, really), was what would cause the walls to melt away. It would cause me to die, too, but I'd rather that than this. That they hate me.