Not particularly improved
I'm writing because I'm told to write. I'm told this is the sort of thing that helps. I'm told this is the sort of thing that will make me 'sane' again. Whatever keeps the jacket off is all I care.
Keeps the jacket off, sure, but what keeps the wolves away? Even I'm starting to believe I'm cracked. Though starting doesn't exactly cover it, does it now?
The din of this place is loud and endless. A humming, shrieking, mumbling mantra. A cycling, devout, throat song to some horrible god I sometimes sense shifting in its sleep. A monster fed on madness that stirs in the belly of this place.
People are wondering and whispering about 'what caused the flood' down there. It was fucking thirsty, I wager. This place was cleaning a few lost souls out of its guts and vomiting them back up to writhe and cower with the rest of us. It's so obvious when you've got all the time in the bloody world to think about it.
They let some of the patients have their vices. Paper to tear, a blanket to drag about, a doll to cuddle... But not Johnny. No. Just because my handle on reality is killing my lungs, warm and slow, doesn't make me any less entitled to it, you bastards. I hope they read this. Hardly see the point otherwise.
Our Cheryl has yet to make an appearance, with or without family in tow. I can't blame her but I'm still waiting. Won't let myself just dig in and accept that I'm alone. Think that would be easy. Compared to accepting that either hell opened it's ugly, dripping, stinking maw and gummed me a while only to spit me out a shell of myself or --the alternative-- that I've gone totally and irreparably around the bend and killed a great lot of people... Well, accepting that Cheryl Constantine has finally had sense enough to abandon her brother should be a walk in the bloody park.
I always have had trouble with the simple tasks.
I will say now, that I have no desire to get 'chummy' with my fellow lunatics. No more than I want a special bonding experience with the orderlies or guards. Doesn't stop the need for communication, though. Interaction seems a necessity. If I don't talk to another person now and again, I'm starting to think I'll forget the skill. Can't start trouble, though. Starting trouble's sure to get me back in isolation in canvas formal wear and only the dead for company.
You can do this, John. Bloody behave yourself.
Keeps the jacket off, sure, but what keeps the wolves away? Even I'm starting to believe I'm cracked. Though starting doesn't exactly cover it, does it now?
The din of this place is loud and endless. A humming, shrieking, mumbling mantra. A cycling, devout, throat song to some horrible god I sometimes sense shifting in its sleep. A monster fed on madness that stirs in the belly of this place.
People are wondering and whispering about 'what caused the flood' down there. It was fucking thirsty, I wager. This place was cleaning a few lost souls out of its guts and vomiting them back up to writhe and cower with the rest of us. It's so obvious when you've got all the time in the bloody world to think about it.
They let some of the patients have their vices. Paper to tear, a blanket to drag about, a doll to cuddle... But not Johnny. No. Just because my handle on reality is killing my lungs, warm and slow, doesn't make me any less entitled to it, you bastards. I hope they read this. Hardly see the point otherwise.
Our Cheryl has yet to make an appearance, with or without family in tow. I can't blame her but I'm still waiting. Won't let myself just dig in and accept that I'm alone. Think that would be easy. Compared to accepting that either hell opened it's ugly, dripping, stinking maw and gummed me a while only to spit me out a shell of myself or --the alternative-- that I've gone totally and irreparably around the bend and killed a great lot of people... Well, accepting that Cheryl Constantine has finally had sense enough to abandon her brother should be a walk in the bloody park.
I always have had trouble with the simple tasks.
I will say now, that I have no desire to get 'chummy' with my fellow lunatics. No more than I want a special bonding experience with the orderlies or guards. Doesn't stop the need for communication, though. Interaction seems a necessity. If I don't talk to another person now and again, I'm starting to think I'll forget the skill. Can't start trouble, though. Starting trouble's sure to get me back in isolation in canvas formal wear and only the dead for company.
You can do this, John. Bloody behave yourself.