How do we escape? This prison isn't steel, iron, even simple sticks. These bars are made of bone, wrapped in pleasure, flesh. Bound in nerves, veins. My prison is pulsing, beating. I know it's a trap, a misconception, but even so it's tempting to live in the moment, to do what gratifies me here, now. My body is a traitor, fallen, demanding, insidiously reaching.