/lit/ - Literature

>The man in the dinner plate despaired. Another holiday, another visceral congregation of noblemen and noblewomen, pushing meats across his brow like sweat rags and cackling at fool's banter.

>He had been trapped in the fine porcelain for nearly a decade, and his hope flickered with feebleness. His true name was lost to him. The sensations of his body were fleeting memories in a dark past. Had he ever been real, or was he just a mirage so elaborate that it had convinced itself of its authenticity?

>The baron seated before him coughed and spat a chicken bone onto the plate, patting his belly in self-satisfaction. He grinned at the man in the dinner plate.

>No, the prisoner thought. This is hell. I am in hell.