Somehow I feel like I'm waiting . . . waiting for my term of house arrest to be over one would think, but I am not really waiting for that. I know very well that I was waiting before I was under house arrest, that I have been waiting all my life . . . waiting perhaps to get back to the swamp; but I know I will never get back to the swamp, nor do I really want to anymore. I am waiting to die . . . I have lived a long term, and I do not know how old I am. Time stretches on into the past, on and on until I cannot count the years, on until my memory goes foggy; and I know it stretches on a good ways past there before there was the time when I did not exist. I have been existing for a very, very long time. I am waiting for it all to be over, for existence to collapse with the failure of my organs--for this metamorphosing dance of colors and lights hitting my eyes to finally be wiped clean and disappear, so that I may sleep forever and forever, as good as never having existed at all. I am waiting and waiting, but I do not have any idea how long I am meant to wait. I do not know how long a Swamp Thing can live, nor do I know my age. . . . The thought that as Swamp Things go I am yet young is a terrible one; I hope I am old, I hope my organs soon are to cry out, "Enough!" and perish, putting down their ceaseless activity. I wish for sleep, and I am given fiery consciousness; I wish for death, and am given another day and another day and another day. I do not really care anymore that I am under house arrest. My desires lie not in Freedom, but in Rest.