The lights in the psych ward were leaking water.
The thermostats were too, but with them it was almost expected.
The liquid falling slowly and vibrating in front of me, I can’t tell what’s more real.
Sanity is the lie upon which all men are measured, but if not controlled properly, you end up here.
The doctor visits daily but looks through me so that he doesn’t get trapped in my mind.
I can’t blame him. It’s hard in here.
He sits in the big chair to emphasize his small stature but rises quickly. How come he does, he doesn’t convey.
He wears a sweater made out of my grandmother’s wallpaper, the mustard, smoky walls from my youth.
His feet barely reach the floor as he walks towards me.
He asks for a story. Once upon a time, the unqualified asterisk remained unencumbered long enough to grow a protective layer that morphed him into the symbol of a defunct car company.
The doctor nods and writes leisurely on the pad, but the ink stays where it is.
He asks me to repeat the story, looking for an indication that isn’t there.
I’m not finished yet.
How can I expect him to remember anyway, when it’s all in my head.
The barber shop on Casey Street that reignites a loose strand of memory conceived in front of an Amsterdam window, when a mammoth onyx coaxed me to join her under a reddish light.
Passing through the median’s blazing inferno, it was easy to see why people get excited.
It’s all here for me, the egotistical paranoia setting in, settling in.
I can’t believe how many times I’ve seen the world end.
The ritualized order alluding to the illusion of infinity.
Tell me a different story, he says.
Is he here to extract information that the one he serves deems valuable? I’ll need him to buy into my vision.
The children were dead, but what they turned into still roamed the streets.
That’s some more ammo he’ll use when he leaves.
I can’t wait for him to leave.
I blink but my eyes stay closed.
Someone change the channel.
I’ve already seen this episode of eyelid television, and I don’t like how it ends.

Serenity Insanity
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