i intend to wait until he is sleeping, head thrown back- drool sliding over his cruel lips. i will move slowly on hands and knees to sneak to the cupboard and slide from the cluttered drawer the knife whose handle is a bound and gagged woman carved from the horn of a narwhale and with it, i will slice the puppeteer catgut strings that bind me to the hands of the faltering dauber who animates my squalid existence and if i remember for the distraction of freedom may be too great, i will slit his throat before i light the match to reduce his cottage to the fire that will light my way through the hills i have never seen but through the crack in the heavy wooden front door.