The bars of your cage are caked in shit, W. says. The walls of your cell are caked in shit, in your own shit, and there you'll sit in your blanket, shivering. And everything you'll have done will have been your dirty protest. Everything you've said, everything you've written, every deed you've performed: a dirty protest.
Because you wanted someone to deny you it, didn't you? You wanted someone to intervene, to say: No! But it never came, did it? The order never reached you, and you were forgotten at your post. What else did you do but read and write? How else did you occupy your time? But you were waiting for orders, weren't you?
You knew it was wrong, everything you were doing. You knew someone had slipped up. How were you overlooked? Who forgot you? But there you were, reading and writing. There you were, caking the walls with shit.
Lars Iyer's Blog 