The rules of the game. Part 4

Sometimes inspiration strikes me, a reassuring vision of the world, the new neo-globalized world, economic scarcity, it doesn't even affect me (morally), that part of me is ignored and reworked by other people, I just exist, think, and lie down in this third-world room. But the needs of others are not my own. Nothing contaminates me, since I am immune to the space around me. I have placed a countdown on this wall; for me, weeks only have six days. Wednesday does not exist, my day of ashes. My aunt predicted, through a dream, my future death and my previous release from prison.

I would need all the chocolate in the world to survive prison. I went in because of other people's problems, so I kept quiet or decided to ignore them, but now I just wonder if it was the right thing to do. I paid a considerable amount of money and nothing came of it. They sentenced me to a year and seven years went by. When I got back to my homeland, everyone was dead. The houses had fallen into disrepair and trees had grown everywhere; it was hard for me to understand the language, the new social cues, the new trends, and love.

They would also need all the patience in the world to understand me. The house was covered in a thick layer of dust. They seized a few items, the rest were almost rotten, breathing was almost impossible, and my memories were rearranging themselves. I looked at the wall again, the sticks arranged in rows of six, and some photos with torn edges.