I live in a secret annex far from earthly cares.
My suite of rooms is concealed behind a hidden bookcase.
The world’s clichés lie elsewhere; they do not threaten me.
I project my infinite imagination onto a padlocked, bounded dimension.
Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence all. I must be silent.
Even muffled footsteps would threaten to betray my undisclosed presence.
I record the daily to-ings and fro-ings for future reference.
Notepads and manuscript pages are strewn on the clapboard floor.
Humdrum procaism will force its entry some day, I fear.
I will die in another room, my notions snuffed out.