Ben Rhodes

Never before had I used a treadmill powered solely by my own stride.

For someone used to running daily in the Bois de Bologna, the contrast was stark.

Never had I encountered a more inconvenient shower setup.

The meager steam shut off almost immediately as if controlled by a timer.

You constantly had to find the button and press it again.

It produced none of the usual pleasure.

From my window, I could no longer see the sky, a bird in flight, or a tree trembling in the wind.

I was struck by the complete absence of color.

And then, there was the limp, damp baguette after each day at lunch.

I felt myself becoming vulnerable to sadness.

It was as if my heart had stopped beating.

I felt on the edge of an abyss.

I got the idea of rereading Sartre to see if I would find there the emotions I was living through.

There was nothing to elevate the eye, the perspective, the setting.

I am a lover of painting.

I appreciate the beauty.

Prison is not made for esthets.

How do I pronounce that word?

Are we sure this wasn't, you know...

No.