Necessary Escapism

Every night he shut his eyes to the harsh sound of the lights going out, and locks falling into place; he had been here for seventeen years, and whether it was right or wrong no longer mattered: it simply was. When he dreamed he had a window to look out of, and how he looked. The simple things of grass fluttering in the breeze, or a bird's shadow racing over the ground as it flew above; it would always end abruptly with the artificial light shattering the memory of the sun, and again he found himself lying in his cell.