The windows are broken. I have seen the glass in them shatter and speed towards me like kamikaze butterflies high on buckshot. I have never climbed through them, or opened them. Hoop! I have hollered though their holes—Hoo! Wah! but there is not enough noise to make the blood flow. The limp muscle cannot dare the windows. Still I cling to myself like old cobwebs. My bones are hollow, play them like xylophones. Work on me, stretch me across a rack as a canvas so that I cannot breathe for the tension of the potential. The windows’ teeth gleam. They are waiting.
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