My haven is not imaginary. Double volume, reaching far above the surrounding rooms. Four large glass panels to the east, glass bricks randomly placed near the high ceiling. A watchtower onto the night skies. The walls pearly grey. Cold, cold tiles beneath my feet. Cathedral-like.

I face a blank wall where a few scribbled words remind me; “WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.” Two escape routes, the third blocked by a lattice screen, stark against the, where the 21st century holds sway. Behind me, a wall of words between the covers of books. Other people’s stories, other people’s dreams. The wisdoms and follies of history. The poets. Lorca leaning against Whitman. Castro jammed between Tolkien and Tolstoy.

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