I’m standing here, tiptoes on the chair, looking out at another rainy day. It’s cloudy and difficult to see, but the drops coming in under the edges have me worried. If the water continues it shouldn’t cause any harm, for the window is quite a few feet above the floor. My bed of straw and linen should remain dry but just in case, I drop down from the window ledge and secure it in the farthest corner.

They bring drinking water almost every day, but I put my metal cup under the sill, hoping to catch some fresh rainwater to cleanse my hair. I think that is what I miss most. The simple washing of my body in a free running stream or waterfall, but I can’t dwell on it. Thinking of what may never be attained is not good.

I’ve scratched a mark for each of the eighty-six days…