"My dream is not a dream."<quoted text>
These are the words painstakingly, clumsily, slowly written across the page
The others point and laugh, sniggering openly behind their hands and staring with hardened eyes as he struggles to write a single, mandated poem.
"My dream is an illusion, a foolish fantasy, a mirage. I know now that what I imagined was pointless,
It was too beautiful."
He re-adjusts his grip on the pen. It is unfamiliar in his fingers, as writing utensils are, save for the duration of these seventeen months, forbidden by the unfair Topix moderators.
He wishes he was able to type, and remembers his one true friend, with sadness.
"No, my dream is not a dream, and if it is, it will not come true.