Did Mr. Dufresne feel this way? Little by little, chipping away, in the one place hidden from the all-seeing eye. The only sound is the turning of the screw - round and round and round. Sweat drips down on plaster covered skin. Do you have to love it to go to such lengths? Or is it enough that its tedium fills those gaps - those gaping holes? In the end, will they even know the difference? I hope not.