My skin is moist, damp and clinging to the grooves of my
fingerprints as I poke myself in the arm. My body feels like it is melting; a
body of clay becoming more impressionable and malleable as time goes by and the
temperature in this room increases. Trails of salt and water begin to draw
lines down my neck as though I'm in a eucalyptus infused steam hut without any foreseeable
or immediately evident means of escape.
There is no escape.
