First things first — the first line. 

You have put yourself in a spot and let the walls mount up – bricks tightly packed, all sealed and cemented. No windows, no door, a ceiling without a fan. No crack of light anywhere, the solid ground is turning sand – quick. Tired of battling the still air, your fingers tackle the sand slipping beneath. 

There in the real made-up misery, an iron thing against your skin. It’s a rod. In the dark, your hands scan it and stop when they reach the pointy edge. Now you will hang on to it and pick yourself up. You will crawl or scrape or walk the best you can. You will reach the wall and tap on it for a weak bone or two. You are desperate, yes, but you are not a fool. You are fast but calculating. You are just – you need to find the right moment or things will remain as they are.

You find it. A brick aching to break. You strike the blow. 

Now you will know – night or day, the season of time, the degree of moistness, a scent of action. Slowly, eventually, you’ll break the whole room down. Pound its corners to dust and walk out with the entire duration marked on your body. You’ll look at your creation and make a final obeisance to the shrine you broke.

All that, later. First things first — the first line. 

A rod, a brick, a blow.