Dungeon

All men needed to hear their stories told. He was a man, but if he died without telling the story he would be something less than that, an albino cockroach, a louse. The dungeon did not understand the idea of a story. The dungeon was static, eternal, black and a story needed motion and time and light. He felt his story slipping away from him, becoming inconsequential, ceasing to be. He has no story. There was no story. He was not a man. There was no man here. There were only the dungeon and the slithering dark.

Enchantress Of Florence, Salman Rushdie

 

(Featured Image- Prisoner of Chillon, Ferdinand Victor Eugene Delacroix)

 

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