It was the fifth month of my confinement when I saw a flower, a tulip in front
of me, like Macbeth's Dagger, just floating there in front of my eyes, glowing
omniously in the midnight blue-black nothingness. I reached out to hold the delicate
flower, but as I touched its soft, red petals, the flower witherd into a thousand
tiny fragments of dust. I closed my eyes and thought of my father, mother, wife,
daughter and these Four Walls that seperated me from my garden of families, friends,
of happiness.
