The night is sleepless without my sorrow, and the silence seems to dislike being broken- except by the occasional gusts of wind that will howl and ache before it eventually will die down and never feel its own rush again. 

I am awake on a mattress of dead cotton and poking coils, the frame made of rusting steel that will eventually crack to break every bone in my body. Outside is dark and glum, almost as gloomy as my predicament, so I turn and face the wall. 

Time had etched its mark upon the stone, and the rampart aged to form a thin crust of dust that I will never dare to touch. 

The air is stale and chokes me as I breathe in, it smells of - no description exists that I know of, I have forgotten everything before this.

"Why do I exist?" I say, and quickly regret as soon as my lips form the words. 

The quiet is now an echo of what I dared to ask, and the figure by the wall will now shift on the shabby frame of old pipes and bottles with a groan that I will never quite decipher.

"Will you sleep?" They plead, but expect me to take it as a demand- so I will. I will twist and bend the limbs I need to face the blighted ceiling, and forever waste my time doing the only thing I know to do that I will never quite explain. I haven't explained much of the things I have said as of now, I haven't talked about the entity that has occupied this cell with me and almost nothing of the hell I will spend an eternity in. 

I don't know anything.