At the orphanage where I spent my formative years, nearly everything a child might need was scarce, except for music. Of this there was no shortage. One of the nurses loved music and had a phonograph that was kept in the atrium. The music—all kinds—filled the dark rooms and hallways and even the attics and porches like water. The long dormitory in which I slept and kept my few possessions was, while a long way off from the atrium, able to receive the sound as if it was flowing right to me, enveloping me, entering me. After coming of age and leaving the orphanage, I continued to seek that same auditory experience—hearing as if underwater, or hearing as if music was life itself—but have yet to find it.

Now, in the prison, I have to do without real music. I am more like an ear, or a machine that records live music, as I am always present to listen to the prisoners and the sounds of the prison as it interacts with them. If only I could play every moment back infinitely and relive each moment, broken into segments of my own choosing. But it doesn’t work like that.

I tend to the prisoners. I say “I tend to them” because, it may surprise you to know, I am the only guard. In fact I am currently the only person at the prison aside from the prisoners. There is no warden, no physician, no librarian, no cook, no janitor, no shop teacher, no psychiatrist, no chaplain, no teachers, no lawyers, and no visitors—so far.

I confess that I harbor a longing for music and part of me keeps a small portion of hope alive, like a tiny flame in a glass jar, that someone or something will arrive with music. No one here can sing and no instruments are allowed. So I go on, waiting. If there is an end to my obligation here, my first step will be to find a record shop and I will search for the music through which I floated every night as a child.

Sometimes I dream that I almost hear it, that it is hovering somewhere nearby, but morning breaks the spell and my day begins, like in the vacuum of space, without sound. Sound cannot exist without something through which to move, and perhaps the air here is too thin, too evasive. If I close my eyes and put my hands out in front of me, I can feel the air eddy around me, swirling and silent.

Every nine years I have a special duty. It involves the receipt of a gift. Some call it a sacrifice. Surrender, give up, suffer to be lost. We can choose to look at this transaction in a variety of ways. Some say that these nine people, these nine young men, are guilty. They must be cleansed.