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

She could not remember
how long she'd been here;
indeed, she was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
measuring life merely
by periods of dark or light,
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 her suddenly,
anxious for a glimpse
of some fancied nirvana
outside the crying windows;
“Do you come here often?”
he asked hopefully,
trying to peer beyond her.

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