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Compelled by his native curiosity he makes his way 
slowly, stumbling frequently. The walls are cold 
and slimy to his touch. A rat skitters by his feet, 
and he is conscious of a low murmuring sound 
that he cannot explain. Up and up he goes. 
The darkness takes away his sense of time and space, 
until he isn't sure how long he has been climbing. 
He doesn't like the feeling of confinement, the feeling 
that he is out of control, so he is relieved when 
at last he reaches the top.
 
He marks his ascent: 
three hundred twenty-two steps.

There is no means of egress, no relief
from his persistent feeling of claustrophobia. 
He rests for a while to regain his strength 
for the downward journey. More accustomed now 
to his environment his thoughts turn to his plans 
for the Deviants; the thought transference seminars
and the mind control experiments on Deviant children. 
They had come so far in establishing control that there 
was little resistance now, only a few guerrillas out here 
on the plain, making trouble with their war wagons 
and their insistence on insurgence.

His thoughts return to the the matter at hand 
as he feels himself nearing the ground. He has found 
nothing to concern him in the tower's bleak interior.
In his anxiety to be free of its constricting hold 
he has forgotten the upward step count.

It doesn't really matter anyway...

as if the Deviants could outmaneuver him...

he continues his descent,

three hundred twenty-three,
three hundred twenty-four,
three hundred twenty-five...

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