I don’t get to have many things in this life anymore. The system takes away simple pleasures like that, because they know a simple pleasure can keep a man sane. The clothes I wear are borrowed. When I die, they’ll wash them, tear them apart, then sow it onto another man. The bed I sleep on is sown into the frame, which is bolted into the ground. Even a good meal, I’m not allowed to have. They’re all made by someone else, someone who either doesn’t think we deserve to eat or doesn’t care if we eat at all. Sometimes I fantasize about making a nice sandwich for myself, laying the bread on the plate, spreading some mayo, layering a couple slices of ham and cheese, then placing the bread on top. I don’t even eat it in my fantasies, sometimes I just sit there, admiring the thing I’ve created, the one thing I tell myself that I own.