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The Cage

Surrounding him were metal rods, stretching further than Don’s eyes could see, almost indefinitely. The floor was cold, even and stable. It is impossible for one to stumble, to fall, when one’s feet and firmly planted on the ground. But Don could not feel security in the fact that the only direction to look was upwards.

A woman with hips that swerved in slow motion appeared, clasped two rods and put her heart shaped face in between.

“Why did you stop writing poetry?” she asked, her voice echoing across the endless space.

“Because I’m imprisoned in this cage!” Don yelled, and approached his visitor. She chuckled.

“You lazy idiot,” she chided mercilessly. “A prisoner has no power; you have no spirit.”

“I think you’ll find, in time, that prisoners lose their spirit, as well. And clearly,” he said, gesturing at himself, “I haven’t the power to escape.”

“Look!” she cried. “The bars of your cage climb higher still! As your head droops, your chances fade. And all the while, the key has been at your feet.”

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