X doesn’t think he’d mind prison too much, he tells me, at least not solitary confinement. His room is like a prison as it is, he says, this room he carries about inside him. He’s already in prison, he says, all he does is sit here. Sometimes he walks around, feeds himself, evacuates. It sounds melodramatic, he shrugs, like everything I say, but hey, I didn’t choose it. He doesn’t think he’d mind isolation much, he says, the walls wouldn’t make much difference and the seasons mean nothing to him. The interrogators wouldn’t know what to do with him, with their stupid games, he says. They’d just think I was arrogant and try to break me down, he says. Whoever heard of such a creature! he says. An abomination, he says, that’s what he is.

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