There is enough light, here in the extreme corner of my box, to look at my reflection in the pool of piss I keep in place of a mirror. As always, I apply my make-up with extreme care. Each line, each angle, each curve, all must be perfection. I pause in my ministrations to admire the vision before me, the delicate filigree of my own excrement tracing stylised, rancid patterns on the skin of my face and chest. Wicked!

The source of my reflection gives my skin a lurid, urine-tinged hue that I find quite fetching. I grin at myself and my loosening yellow teeth, reflected as a deep sepia, leer back at me hungrily. Soon, my children, I hiss, soon.

Satisfied finally with my efforts, I retire to my dark nook. The stench of my faecal toxins fills my nostrils, enervating me and triggering a bout of sublime vomiting. Purged, I arise to my full height, naked and erect. Bastard Extant. I strut the circumference of the box, as is my habit, looking for any flaw or imperfection, any sign that your hate is waning. Here and there dents are visible where I have thrown myself at a particular part of the barrier, when I have sensed it softening. But you have always shored up, made secure, strengthened your resolve and shut me out.

A movement at the periphery of my vision distracts me, drags me from my investigations. A shimmering bundle tucked into a corner. As I draw closer it becomes apparent that the shimmering is actually light reflecting off the backs of numberless writhing maggots. I assume that they are feasting on some discarded part of me, and brushing them aside I do indeed see the foetid, gnawed remnants of my soul. Absently, I scoop a couple of handfuls of the grubs into my mouth and chew, relishing the little explosions of acid-flavour as each little body bursts between my teeth. They will make a welcome change to my diet, and they are welcome to my soul. I never had much use for the moral strait-jacket that came with it.

I resume my examination, running my hands over the rough bricks of your scorn, looking for any weakness, the faintest glimmer of forgiveness or trust. But I am forgetting myself - look to the high ceiling! There hangs trust, her neck broken and a knife plunged savagely into her back for good measure. I did that. Such is my power in this place, I murdered her without even a thought, without even realising I had done it. Her heart I have cut out, and is wrapped in rags in my sleeping corner, away from the rats and maggots. I keep it because it is broken, and as soon as I can figure out how, I'll fix it. Really I will.

The search takes me, in time, back to my pool of piss. I am always careful not to stand in it - I am afraid to make waves - and skirt around its circumference whilst checking my appearance.

The light is dimmer today, and I look up to its source. It is as I thought. The window of doubt, high up and out of my reach, is closing slowly. Soon I will be in complete darkness, and then what will become of me?

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