He gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets
in tiny light-riven rivulets
to pool in hopeless futility
on sill and ledge.

He could not remember
how long he had been here;
indeed, he was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
measuring his life merely
in periods of dark or light,
of humidity or aridity.  

Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same,
here in this white-tiled purgatory
where endless days merged
into non-existent seasons,
and the world turned slowly
on a rusting showerhead.

A newcomer jostled him suddenly,
anxious for a glimpse
into some fancied nirvana
beyond the crying windows;
“Do you come here often?”
she asked hopefully,
peering over his shoulder.

Scarcely admitting her presence
he continued looking away
into the abstract distance,
answering as only
sentient slime-mould can;
“Me?" he shrugged,
"I only come here for the condensation."