Stone Walls do not a Prison make,

Nor Iron bars a Cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an Hermitage.

If I have freedom in my Love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone that soar above,

Enjoy such Liberty.

Richard Lovelace, he was a great poet. He knew all the tricks. I used to like the Cavalier Poets, when I was in school. It's been a long time now. I saw the poetry in binary, and I never looked back.

Sing-song, sing-song. I quote poetry to Harold. He likes it. It's part of his programming, you might say. He likes old things. It's funny, that. He likes things so new no one has ever seen or heard of them, things like the Machine, but he also likes old things.

He says I read well, in that wry voice he uses whenever he compliments me. He thinks I'm pretty; I think he's adorable. You might say it's cat and mouse, except that the mouse has managed to put the cat in a Faraday Cage.

It's funny, so funny, to be surrounded by so much technology and be unable to reach or touch it. He's a good jailer, that Finch. I like Reese; he's scared of me. I know better than to try to seduce him. He doesn't go in for that any more, he says. They all go in for it sometimes, but I'm not his type.

I miss Her. I know She misses me. Harold is a silly, precious little fool to keep us apart. He's pitiful in his sheer determination to move against the inevitable tide. I bide my time and read his books. He has thousands, and he fills my prison with ones he thinks I'll enjoy.

He has good taste, the little bird of a man. I would marry him if I didn't love his Machine more. I don't mind jail; billionaires have fantastic dinners.

It's only a matter of time. I wonder if Harold will be collateral.