Purgatory I stay. Mewling, churning, turning over in my palm. Clutching stones. Hard — so my wrist tendons are visible. Set down. Smooth stones on the ground. Stay squat. Observe the threaded ends of my clothes; my rags. This end frayed more than it was earlier. Observe the increasing visibility of my calves beneath the ragged ends. The bone defines itself from the muscle. The skin taut holding the apparatus. I stand and spin a revolution. The walls are in the same place they were before. Three feet from my nose. I’m in this tower. Organizing my stones. And sleeping. I organize my stones in pleasant patterns. Squares, circles, however I want. I do it while crouched. Before I place a stone I consider the ground. My placements are very intentional. I turn the stone over in my palm. I enjoy the feeling of the smoothed stone in my palm. I must consider the placement of this stone. I like it’s color — brown. I attempt to recall past placements of this stone. I must draw on past placements if I am to place it this time correctly. Also of importance: this stone’s current character. What is the stone thinking this iteration? Where is it naturally vying. I spend time learning this stone’s character in my palm. With every turn its character slightly deviates. For it has slightly eroded. Over the years all the stones have altered character. They have changed. Shed aspects here and gained some there. In color and shape. These changes must be accounted for. I dutifully study their evolution for things must be done right. This stone I am prepared to place. Perhaps in the morning — I will sleep on it then return to my task.