A bucket the bucket this bucket becomes my closest confidant in this octagonal cell. Instead of bars, I experience books—translated from misunderstood languages, dispatched from distant satellites. Thousands of years have burned language into a strange nothingness. A wounded Neanderthal scrawls The Epic of Gilgamesh in his own blood while munching on a roasted Homo sapiens arm. And so each syllable presages its own death.