Vanity. Ares

cell. Coctau pushed and shoved me along, whilst
firmly gripping my arm, probably to stamp his
masculinity, I gauged. But, in reality this was in
fact more stupidity; complicated Freudian
stupidity, that I thought assumed I was being
punished though these happenings were of the
eclectic variety like vignettes of poetry in the
scenes of my life. I walked along, finding this pain
the punishment I would have preferred, but that
which that prevailed was slower and the walk to
the van felt as if it were to perdition.
Just as offensive as Coctau's rough handling
was the cheeriness of the black officer, listening to
the black officer say: “It’s great when there’s a
little sunshine, makes you feel that there’s hope.
You know? Hope is needed.” which annoyed me,
as he would speak whilst also whistling and I
found this jarring. I would have preferred him to
grab my arm just as hard as Coctau, but instead he
kept hitting us with hopeful chatter about the
weather and that there was going to be Ravioli that
day for lunch, and how the inmates loved Ravioli. I
did not enjoy his words, deeming them as more
stupidity; a trivial geniality.
Rather happily I was led into the back of the
van, where I sat alone, no more trivial talk or nails
dug into my arm, just the silence of the dimly lit
van, the cold hard surface. Strangely, my mind at
the moment the doors were locked, my mind came
to Jesus, I don’t know why, but as the van started
to pull out of the prison I had a few thoughts
about him and concluded them with the thought
that he probably had felt the same, walking to the
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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