I’ve been here for a while and it is very nice despite the guy down the hall who think’s he’s Mary, Queen of Scots. I don’t mind, it’s summer now and I love the scent from the flowers growing in the garden. The days seem to go by in a blur and I’m getting to know Mark very well. He makes scrawly looped notes about how I’m getting on, how much I’ve improved here in the asylum. I tell him it’s the silence I like best, the blessed peace I get from the voices inside my head.
I tried very hard to make this a fiction piece, and I think I’ve succeeded, but it desperately wanted to be a poem. So I wrote that, too…here it is:
It’s nice here in the asylum,
smells of orange blossom
all day long; never rains
and people call me
by my Christian name.
The staff wear normal clothes
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