The nub above his middle joint itching like crazy. It is all he can do to keep from living that moment when as a child he got it caught in the big machine his father and grand father used to turn hay into perfect rectangular cubes. He always wondered how the nub was actually larger than his finger. Good thing he didn't keep a ring on there before hand. It would be stuck forever, as his hand grew, the ring would slowly be enveloped by his finger. He imagined the tender feeling of red skin around a splinter, this is how his finger would feel around the ring.
He slept under his bed for a full year. It was an old bed frame, high off the ground. His mattress wasn't much more than a flat pillow stuffed with cotton anyway, metal ribs, cutting straight into his back.
He would drape sheets down from the top, creating a perfect cave to dream in. Black waterfalls engulfed his senses. He was swimming, he was flying. In the winter cold air blew in from the electric socket. Six tiny holes of air, constantly blowing on him. It turned his dreams into painted windmills.

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