No rack can torture me,
My soul's at liberty,
Behind this mortal bone
There knits a bolder one

You cannot prick with saw
Nor rend with scimitar.
Two bodies therefore be;
Bind one, and one will flee.

The eagle of his nest
No easier divest
And gain the sky,
Than mayest thou,

Except thyself may be
Thine enemy;
Captivity is consciousness,
So's liberty.
Written by Emily Dickinson. copyright information in that node.

Every night before I leave, I come here for this
I press my face against the cold, powder-coated door
The heart of our radio station lives in here
The monotonous throbbing of the fan array on top feels like a human pulse
Through the slits in the door I can see a tiny city of lights, some steady, some flashing
The 50Hz hum of a dozen power supplies makes me feel comfortable and sleepy
Tiny scraping sounds remind me of cicadas
I can feel a gentle stream of air through the wisps of hair on my face
The stiff carpet tiles beneath my unshod feet bristle my toes
I close my eyes, and for a moment disappear into another world
Then place my arms around the rack, and whisper goodnight

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