I sit in the dungeon in the church by my house.  My parents, they put me here, I said, to no one in particular.  I am happy here, giddy in fact, yet I know my mind is gone.  Gone, gone, like the bits of eyelashes I’ve been pulling out and stacking on my calves, making miniature figurines and people going about their day-to-day lives, except I’m always the hero and they always glorify me and tussle my hair and say “congrAAAdulations my boy, we’re so proud of you!” and I’m so happy I could just ******* and I get **** all over my eyelashes and scream because look what I’ve just done and I jump up to rub my leg up against the wall of to wipe it off and then realize I’m in a dungeon and that my mind is gone, gone, and I sit down to cry.  Except there is no one to cry to when you’re in a dungeon.  So I just sit. And wait.  And hope to ******* God the tears can come out soon, but no, no, not here, not here, so I scrape off the *** from the wall and go back to work.