Questions? Questions like why am I here, in this small room, with a single overhead light, shining harshly on a long table with a monitor, and a hard wooden chair in front of it, where I sit.
"Still not talking?"
What could I say? I've said it all before, its all down in writing for the world to see, how could I make it any clearer?
"Context, Professor, context is what we wish. All this writing, all the topics, where is the thread, the link, the key?"
The blog! So they've deemed it worthy of attention. I should have known that those CIA hits on the site meter were not accidental. But my work is not political. Is it?
"And those foreign nationals who have written there? One from a socialistic state, no less! We are well aware of your communications with these people, are you to say that your cryptic comments have no hidden meaning?"
I bury my head in my hands. It seemed all so innocent, so positive, just a few years ago. We were going to change the world, and then...
"Still won't speak? We have methods to deal with your ilk, effective methods."
No, I won't talk. Let them beat me, torture me. My life is of small worth, who would notice if I was gone?
"Very well, Batty, you leave us with no recourse...start the film Plan 9 From Outer Space... and we'll see if that refreshes your memory!"