Everything's dull like a butter knife. I sit around for hours scratching my arms trying to make a dent. You can't cut yourself with a butter knife, can't create excitement this way. You'd pull a gun on yourself, or a fire alarm. Brain numb, an act of terrorism on your boredom kingdom. It's not fair to compare this to solitary confinement, but my mind has sure gone stagnant. I'm a sitting pond. I'm stale bread. I am sour milk. I am freckled with mildew.
 I am, quite simply put: stewing here.

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You can be in a place so long it feels like fermenting. You can be in a place so long you forget that you're sitting.