Desbear

He gazed out of the window into the summer’s day beyond his grasp.  “How long have I been here?”  He thought in his thick British accent.  “A multitude of days, weeks, months?  How long is a multitude?  A lot, very many, too long.  They keep me here for why, decoration?  To torture my spirit?  Perching me with a view of adventure, of hills and trees and the smell of the ocean, and yet keep me from its reach.  Forever trapped on this dusty shelf of eternity.”