I am writing to you from an adjacent cubicle not more than 15 x 15. Wearing the same shift I fell asleep in last night. Never thinking of clothes. Sometimes I gaze out my window past the dark cedar of my enclosure. Or look up from my reading. It’s 73 and never varies more than 10 degrees. Today it’s primordial and foggy white, with a shadowy outline of trees. In the distance a cow bell and groan. The surround is innocence. A parade led by a speckled hen with her pulsing chorus of chicks ends with a sunset and a dream perhaps of stringing strange and beautiful beads.