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Madness (in the first person)
A dark bird screamed until I saw blood dripping from the eyes. Then it was faraway, suddenly. That was the last sound. This place is without living things, unless you consider the wind grasping at the world like an old man in his final moments. How long am I going to be in here? I have passed many a day in silence, but then there were voices in my head. Now I dream only of those with the sewn-up mouths; I dream of corpses. I write to find new ways to arrange the alphabet. I shout out my poems so I won't forget how to talk- my lips move but nothing is coming out. I am cold all the time now. This stillness sucks away the last glimmers of light. The universe is slowing down. How long am I going to be in here? I have three clocks and one watch and each has stopped in a different time. I am forgetting my order in the cosmic line. I spend these hours huddled in corners, naked and shivering with a closed-up soul. I stare at a wall until I memorize the bumps as so many thousands of graves on the map of a moor. I am unable to cry- that would be a form of speech. Even my name twists into an alien shape as I try to get it out my mouth. I cut up pages of books, and tape the pieces in constellations to the floor until the words are like rats running through mazes into new stories- snakes with their tails grown into their heads; these have no endings. How long am I going to be in here? There are people climbing into my brain. They gather like a crowd before a stoning. None have mouths; they communicate telepathically through invisible wires glowing with open currents. Some have begun to crawl down my neck. I try to resist, but I am losing too many pieces of myself. I can feel them like insects in my chest. They are burrowing into my heart! They occupy every part of me now. I have to squeeze these words through ever-narrowing thoughts. This body is no longer mine. My voice is forced back into my skull. I don't know who I am. Oh my God, how long am I going to be... Do not be concerned -we have not killed him! He will always be in here, in a dark and rectangular thought at the bottom of our brain where he lies quietly, without an identity.
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