The day does not begin, does not peak, nor does it end between these white walls. It just remains to be. A stale entity, an overbearing presence, a necessary white demon perched on your shoulder describing a path you'd rather not travel today, or probably ever.
But I do not see the walls, not white walls at least, but grey, steel, colder, closer walls. Pricking my skin, tattooing colors inhuman, injecting previously rejected memories, preventing movement, confining stories.
Within these steel rectangles pressed upon my back, my face, my appendages, my mind wanders, alone, within itself, testing every step from one grey crumbling lobe to another. Skeletons of past thoughts, devoid of meat and meaning, tumbleweeds like quips and wisps of ideas, flee my mind, and is left, and leaves without any story, not even a string of words, in tow.
