The Shorthand Window Pane

This shorthand window pane, gleaming in the revelry of a now tempest rain, bears my reflected gaze. The blues of my eyes are listless, my expression is morose and of a scant indifference to all that's around me. It's deathly quiet in this room; the air plays host to the scarcely audible whisper of unseen electronics, and the hall is seething with the woe of a lonely brick and marble cave. Lights are of no consolation; we associate light with the living and yet even in the illuminated grandeur of my hospice I can feel only the icy stare of my reflection in this shorthand window. This glass barrier which allows me to see the world outside without letting me forget my place behind it. The clock begins to tick... it makes its oration in unison with the footsteps of reticent passers-by, afraid to make a visual acknowledgement of me, trapped behind my shorthand window pane. The room fills with a caustic steam, impeding upon me, enveloping me in its fingers with ease; let not my screams escape me, let not the sound of defeat berate me... leave this to the shorthand window pane to obfuscate, and in the disparate range of its unlikely decay, let not your reflection, know that you came...