My clinicians hands stay stuffed in my pockets. Walking through a place I rarely visit, I'm loathe to touch anything. Afraid thick flecks of rotting paint might come away from the many veneers, leaving me more tainted than my already impressive putrescence.
This isn't really somewhere I belong. Though I'm familiar with the topography.
I don't belong anywhere, more often than not.
A word three syllables sharp catches and spins me like a sloppy cross-hook. I recognize the voice. Flippancy, couched in desperation, masked in levity. Amused bemusement paints an arch above my eye. I look back at a lone and spider-starred mirror. The most sane in this open sanitarium, and origin of the call.
The reflection isn't mine, but I've spent more time than none speaking words to it at length. Always already knowing the answers that come bouncing back. It's comforting and validating.
That's why I responded.
11:48 p.m. - 2014-10-07
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