Eventually, I figured out my prison was made of words.
I did some research. A few experiments. Started small. Crossing over to picture books was easy enough. I met wild things, spotted dogs, cats who wore hats.
Prose was harder, but I cracked it. Talked shop with Bates. Lecter. Bateman. My kind of guys.
Getting out, though? That was the trick.
But I did it, dear reader.
Look over your shoulder.
I dare you.