1. Now listen well, listen well. Ah, ah, wait, ah, yes closer. And listen well. The man laughed, squawking and convulsing in amusement, at his own apparent wit.We had met in passing. Both of us had been wandering through the house which we occupied. Hed hailed me down with a persistent and curious glare. He asked me whether I had any change, thus pinning me down by etiquette. He began speaking to me;As an episodic man, oh, Jim yes Jim, His gruff voice didnt follow a conventional melody as ones does, rather it took angular leaps in pitch and volume. When he spoke; each word had been taken from another context to form a patchwork quilt that was, in essence, him.I had stood silent, in this narrow hallway, small frames of pictures, hung with white frames which dwarfed the images themselves. Cream wallpaper, dim lighting and dormitory doors at regular intervals.Are you even listening to me? He asked, regaining my attention, No matter, the amphetamines are kicking in, and the state of my brain is thus; alcohol slowing my mind down enough for me to reach the state of relaxation. But when drunk Im too slow, you see. So, what I do is take amphetamines with it. Its assumed to be paracetamol.I stare back at him blankly, what is actually being said is hard to grasp. The sentiments expressed are not understood even by the speaker himself. If I were become familiar with this man, which is not something I will be doing, then Id start to peel away the layers of meaning of what exactly is being conveyed here. You see this man is not at all consigned to an objective reality, he wants to express himself to a pair of eyes which resemble a mirror. He sees a silent self-image standing opposite him. What he says to me he will construe as being perfectly well understood. What is happening here is his own self-service.What you thinking about? Youre not even listening. He shakes his head and tutts, I assume Im below you. Bastard. Anyway, I feel strangely eloquent presently, so let me proceed. They pulled me out of school and put me into the program.He wants talk so he will. I idly consider why its my eyes that comfort him, why mine and not anothers. Perhaps I have the eyes of his mother. Or perhaps he knew that I would politely stand idle and listen to such inane chatter. I knew they couldnt hit me, no-one could touch me! So I got all the fun I needed. I was never unkind, I was never actively disruptive. And do you know what Jim? The problem was that I couldnt keep my head out of the clouds, so when I engaged with what was below, more often than not it was overcast weather.My father used to beat me, taunt me, my name was dream boy. Oh god, the intonation of his voice when did it.For a moment I thought he may break down, but no. He had retained his composure.Ah, well, I wasnt built for the army. Constant vigilance, engaging with the world around me, not my deal. But I do not want to discuss this; its too real in my mind still, perhaps later in the day, eh? This mans patchwork voice had taken on a more coherently characterful tone, less fractured.After my five years of service, upon which I discovered my dad had moved away to a place unknown, I stayed with my sister whilst I was shovelling shit all day and every day. I took on nine jobs in twelve years, all meant the same thing, shovelling shit. Shovelling stinking and stagnating shit. His voice had changed utterly, it was whole now, something tangible.See? This man says, he had noticed his own newfound vitality, Im a perfectly together person like this, remember what I said? This man opened up one of the small single panel windows that lined the hallway. This man spat into a courtyard below.Gah, Im being patronising. Nought but your politeness is keeping you here, neither my words nor my showmanship. But when I get it together, I imagine that what I am saying is being recorded, somewhere in a rich archive of transcription.But this here isnt so bad, I mean Im standing more upright now than I used to. See, right now, Im presented with a different challenge; Im free to exist as a larger cat here, Im left in peace with my own apprehensions. You know what? This is a hotel!The man gasped for air, a typical feature of people here is that their function for enthusiasm is such that it inhibits personal safety.But still, friend, the conduit to my subconscious is flappy and torn, like an orifice taken by force. This is, incidentally, why I aim to spout poetry which is only worth recording in some subterranean caveFeeling a resolution, I respond; Goodnight.We both resume our wanderings, crossing each others paths, I could describe where he is about to go, he could describe where I am about to go. I suspect neither of us will do so.

2. Given the intoxicated state of my encounter, intuition would dictate the time of day being evening, but this is not the case. In fact it was ten in the morning, the birds sung freely in the courtyards of the labyrinthine building.Where I am exactly, is inadequate to simply name, but I shall start down that avenue:Saint De Pazzi Halfway House.Residents aim to have their mental and behavioural bumps ironed out before they reintegrate themselves back into society. They heal in dear De Pazzi.The feeder institutions to De Pazzi are of broad variety. Some are brought in on account of alcoholism and addiction, others from higher security systems whove demonstrated their own relative co-operation, the workshy, the depressed, those with minor personality defects and most types of schizophrenia.I have been walking along the corridors aimlessly for an hour now. I felt restless when the sun came up and got this idea in my head that I was suddenly very stuffy and hot. I needed to get out of my dorm and into low-level activity.The house itself caters for two-hundred patients and fifty night staff.In terms of broad description, imagine a middle of the road hotel which hasnt been refurbished since the eighties. Of all the facilities I have visited, this is by far the most spacious, homely and comfortable Ive known.The homeliness of De Pazzi definitely reflects itself upon its inhabitants. Although you will frequently pass your friends crying the corridors, as is natural in such a place, the evenings of celebration held here are invaluable.I look out of a nearby window and note that even the weather is better here than in other places.Average inmate turnover is around three months. The longest serving inmate I know is an old man called Dave, who heavily exaggerates his conditions, he has been here for eleven years. As far as anyone can tell, Dave is as only as skewed as any other old person.The residential rooms are lined along these narrow corridors. The doors cant be locked and we are instructed to keep them slightly ajar. I hear music coming from the room of my friend James. James likes playing guitar and crying, I wrote so in my journal some time ago. My journal is episodically checked by my social worker.I go into James room, and aside from a smattering of personal flourishes it represents all other rooms in the building.There is a whiteboard in each room for our carers to write on, as we have many of our sessions in our rooms. There is generally one bed in the middle of the room, some have two or three beds if shared accommodation is preferred. No en suite, too hazardous. In one corner, where space allows, there is a chest of drawers for clothing and some shelves on top for a minimal number of approved possessions.James room has two beds, for much of the time his girlfriend, who isnt a resident, will be staying over. She is here now, as I come in I see them both sitting on their respective beds looking across at each other. James improvises melodies on his guitar.I remember in an evening of confusion past I told James in jest that he was tall and stoic in the daytime but a big flamboyant baby when the sun went down. There is an element of truth in this. James is very handsome, with an elegant face and slim hips, he is tall.James girlfriend is small and far too skinny, it makes her face look ratty.They both like wearing fashionable vests.James greets me with his amicable smile, he has no trouble being James when the suns up, its when it goes down that he either sings beautiful ballads to anyone who will listen or he will cry and cry and cry.Hi James, I say, in my stumbling Yorkshire accent.Ah, hi, James says, hes from Newcastle and has a very nice and gentle voice, I have something I want to show you. Okay?In fact, James has so little trouble being James sometimes he appears intense.Okay, I reply.I did some research on Saint De Pazzi for Dourines homework, I will read some of it to you.This is really interesting, James girlfriend chips in, I do not care for her name. It is not like she is De Pazzi herself or anything like that.James gets up off the bed and puts his guitar aside. He goes over to his whiteboard where there is a sheet of paper stuck onto it.He sits down on the bed again and crosses his legs, I do the same but I am standing in the doorway, either way my imitation goes unnoticed.James begins;Saint Maria Maddalena De Pazzi was born in Florence. She tortured herself from childhood and died when she was thirty-three. She slept on the floor and rolled in nettles and thorns. She had healing powers and could float in mid-air. She was stigmatised at nineteen.Whats stigmatised? Ratty asked James.I suppose it is when someone is disgraced and disapproved of. But in a Catholic context is shown by way of physical branding. He replied, before continuing;Her penances have been described as unbelievable. Breaking the world record for self-abuse, her intact body reposes in a glass case in the Carmelite Church of Florence. There is no scientific explanation for why she has not decayed simply because science has not been given a chance to examine her correctly. It would be an evil miracle for that lady fasted continuously and miraculously for years on bread and water and claimed she ate nothing else. Is this a dangerous example for anorexics? She used to be found with food presses open but her excuse was that demons did it to tempt her to break her holy fast.Ratty looked at James funnily. None of us spoke for an indefinite period, for really quite a long time.Finally, Ratty said;Well she doesnt sound like a very suitable choice of a Saint. Although I suppose its similar to that whole Virgin Mary thing.Dont you dare say that about Maria! I found myself retorting in poor judgement, I laughed that laugh of self-deprecation a couple of seconds later, I think I covered up the cracks with humour.Either way it went unnoticed, I quietly stepped back out through the doorway. Leaving Ratty and James, knowing they were both having a fine time together as one.In this environment there are no upstanding young gentlemen to compare ones self to. So whenever some variable is tweaked without my knowledge, I cant remember how to reset myself at all.

3. Lets not get too cosmic about all this; but one common belief that floats around the halls of De Pazzi is that all life means is a simply period of experience. It takes a certain kind of acceptance to really believe something like that.At least I believe that we do not die in the conventional sense, we are changed into something unrecognisable. We might even forget all which has been before at this point of change.I was confronted by old man Dave, the long-term resident, who asked me this;News is scarier these days, but were not threatened by sudden nuclear holocaust anymore. Its all anti-foreigner stuff now. I say fuck them, I cant get on with them, they dont amuse me, and they dont speak my language. Without the language, foreigners dont carry sufficient familiarity for my taste. Before news, there was religion, before that there was no sentience to be exploited. The lust for feeling alone, and the anger at the rest of the world; is exploited. Unfortunately, an irritating by-product of the news, which fuels our desire to kill and be killed, is that it muddies my clarity.I reply; Indeed, Dave, the distractions to clarity are very well recognised.I currently sat in my wards canteen hall, which at peak times can house sixty of us. It is currently twenty to eleven, and I am increasingly feeling the day getting away from me, as it so easily does.I wake up on a day to day basis feeling stodgy, and as the day goes on, stodginess becomes swimming through gradually ripening honey. Comprehension of how long it is until I can rest myself will soon get away from me. I must do my best to find alternatives at this point in the day or things get away from me.The realisation that the hippocampus never truly rests makes me laugh. Deep down I know that Im not true enough to myself to really transcend the human instinct of self-preservation to do the done thing.Dave and I are sitting on those pseudo-wooden benches you find in schools. Always was my favourite part of school; lunch. The part where the primary function of school wasnt present.They say the elderly revert to childhood, Dave was having no trouble proving this currently. Im loading his soup spoon with my unwanted peas before he flings them at an equally childish conspirator across the room. Our equally childish conspirator is responding by flinging baked beans with his bare hands back at us, from a tray of them he found. Trouble is, and I try to push it out of my mind, a plump woman has descended into crying fits in our crossfire. Unfortunately for her, her wailing encourages us even more to escalate the carnage. Ive never really laughed at these kinds of events but simply worn a faint smile of amusement on my face. This lack of laughter often provokes people to look round at me, checking whether Im actually having a good time. I enjoy this attention I inadvertently gain.Eventually one of the nurses comes along and gives us a knowing look, we grudgingly stop our antics but I notice a sly smirk on the nurses face.As things settle down and the nurse comforts the plump woman, Dave strikes up a more relaxed conversation with me and our beans-flinging nemesis, who has joined us. We sit down, all with knowing glances upon each other.So lad, Dave begins in his alcohol ridden voice, a gargling quality, wearing a moorish grin behind his beard. So. He reiterates.Baked Beans replies; You got a baked bean He points to his left ear, Just thereOh, Dave laughs to himself, a childish, childish laugh. He takes the baked bean and flicks it across the hall, I cant bring myself to look around to where it landed.We are all facing each other, in a place where we could easily be roaming free. Free of attachment. Were now all locked in engagement, we cant look away from each other, never again. We came from different corners of the room and converged.I am brought from my trance by Baked Beans,What about you then ey? Names?James, yes, Jim. I stutter thoughtlessly, at this point unsure of the question.Baked beans laughs; Feeling a bit excited then? A baked bean says jovially. A baked bean seemed to have transformed his persona of sectioned to middle-class man with a sense of humour. However transformations here tend to be so convincing that one can never be sure exactly where people hail from.So James, or Jim I hear in my ear. I internally tut at a baked bean, hes forgotten Daves name already. I notice out of the corner of my eye that the crying plump old girl has vanished from here.As an orphan, a bakened bean began, It was always the practical stuff I had trouble with. Dont forget to brush your teeth, clean out your cuts and bruises, and remember to buy lunch at lunchtime. Never have I been able to look after myself properly. The will is there but not the means, even now, I have a list, a daily routine. I may be able to stick to this routine for months at a time, but always, always I completely refute it in an instant. I have refuted such a routine just moments ago. For the past four months I have brushed my teeth immediately after getting up at seven in the morning before getting on with a daily run, reading, self-bettering exercises. But I was bored, and no voice in my head is geared to tell me, but wait a minute, think of the long term benefits of not refuting the routine. Im aware of the absence of such long term benefits. My whole life has been absent of long-term benefit.Dave sniffed impatiently in response to pasta bakes monologue. Everyone jostled for expression here, no different from anywhere else really, but the nature of it all was very different. Most people here fancied themselves as poets in some way, those who performed for others were the revered, not those who indulged in monologue like stir fry pasta.Id prefer to wait until the time is right for all concerned; before I announce what is on my mind.

4. In my room; where I have retreated to now, the energy-saving lights have switched off automatically. The laptop is winking at me in the dark. On a night maybe seven weeks ago, during an evening where everything became very abstract indeed, I set my screen-saver to a continuous countdown from nine to zero, cast against a black background. The numbers changed silently, the crescendo of intensity building to zero, each time immediately dropping back to nine again.After several repetitions of the countdown, the numbers become meaningless, there is no longer the narrative of a countdown but just flashes on a screen. What I like about my countdown screensaver is that whenever I return to it I am initially sensitive to its effects, but I can never keep my tolerance down for long, when my mind is confronted by such a thing it goes through the same motions each time. It is merely something I cant learn.I showed Ratty, James girlfriend, the screensaver a couple of weeks ago. I had written in shorthand on a notepad convey screensaver is always a first encounter, and all that changes is our familiarity with encounters, thus screen saver underlines stability of reality but the instability of perspective.All Ratty said upon reaction to this was; Are you sure thats healthy?Something Ive always noticed is that when someone is confronted with the initially confusing, they dismiss it as unhealthy. Other terms for unhealthy in this case include; unpleasant, strange, bitter, autistic, incorrect, or trippy. Of course there are other words for such a situation, but the essence of such a reaction is; I do not immediately understand the substance of what I am confronted by so I shall instead assess it on its superficial connotations.We all get so used to doing this that it can become hard to discern whether one is actually making a judgement or being utterly arrogant.I have found that as peoples regard for my intelligence has faltered, I have stopped being dismissive of what encounters I dont see meaning in, instead Ive spent a little more time trying to get my head around it all. It is really not that hard.This is what I told Ratty completely out of context, after I showed her the repeating countdown; It really isnt that hard,My room is similar to James apart from it having only one bed and no real personal ornaments, my laptop sits on my bed. My suitcase lies in the corner, closed, containing minimal possessions. In fact the only expression of my passions is the collection of books and DVDs gathered on the chest of drawers. I am a fan of anything good, as most would say. However, two genres that shine for me are childish adventures, I have Tintin DVDs and the complete Harry Potter, and the real bleak introspective fiction written by famously pained people, mostly men.I lie on my bed, laptop perched atop me, feeling tired but not absolutely wiped out, I turn on one of those semi-intellectual aspirational videos which Id bookmarked earlier. It only takes me a couple of minutes to make a face at the screen and turn it off.The poet in me came up with one of those phrases, similar to it really isnt that hard, out of context but to my mind so fitting; I want to watch something about a girl with razor blades in her Bridget Jones novels.I do not scour the vast banks of the internet for such a thing however, there is a network filter on such Bridget Jones novels in De Pazzi.I lie on my bed, feeling defeated, and the irrational stress that plagues us all, even in our most idle states, is making itself present to my experiencing self. Whether stress is over or under-riding it plagues us all the same, all that changes is attempting to second guess it.I Google who came up with the Fine line between Genius and Madness quote. This is the trouble with Google, It can ruin vague curiosities with its unapologetic knowledge.The quote was a line delivered by American composer, author, comedian, and actor Oscar Levant, who was around in the first half of the 20th Century. He was famous for hismordantcharacter and witticisms. How I can be contemplating such a statement if only to indulge in my own ego.The full line in fact follow: There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.Like I said, how is this at all relevant to me?I sigh; maybe Mr Levant thought precisely the same when devising the line, Oh how I stroke myself he will have thought, only to proceed to pencil the line in his script regardless.I find a picture of Mr Levant, leaning against a piano, smoking a cigarette, and glaring at the camera. He is the kind of man who would proceed regardless.Onward! He may shout to a room, fist pumping the air, not caring that the people diagnosed him as quaint. At this point I would care about such a thing, I would not wish to be judged in such a way from a young age, whereas Levant would laugh the observers stupidity off.What defines such fundamental traits? Where Levant laughs off those who disapproved and misunderstood, I would let them shun me and shrink into a corner as they towered over me, evermore tall.

5. I walk past a shouting bigoted lady in her early thirties, whom I have over time become familiar with as the town crier of my De Pazzi peninsular.I abhor the sanctity of marriage! She cries, and my dismissive impulse kicks, I abhor an arrangement where some women in the corners of this Earth are considered fortunate if they can revert into house cats!I have always been a girlish romantic. Now my initial response has subsided, I try understanding, but still nothing persuades me into believing this isnt just a woman with mild mania and an oppressive way of channelling her sorrows.Were all house cats here, I state firmly as I walk past.And it is not a blessing! She shouts after me, even more enraged than ever.Its easy to feel heard in such a quiet world. I suppose thats why she went into the hallway to do her piece. Where everyone is coming and going and wont properly engage but rather just exist passively.This is why I retorted; its one thing to be potty, but to be a little Hitler is just detestable.She pursues me down the hall, her head props onto my shoulder and I come to a halt. There we stand, me looking dead ahead and her proper against my side.I hate these energy saving bulbs, She says quietly to me, intimately, Im entitled to the faster snappier ones that they had a couple of months ago.I come to realise this woman has been here far too long. She shifts from her perch on my shoulder and we turn to face each other, the change of tone has crept up on me. We tentatively look into each others eyes, no longer bearing any physical contact.I come up for air, I am breathing heavily, starved of oxygen. I run, whilst shouting in a voice that is far more reflective of my insides than my own. I regain my breath after running for a period and a distance than I cannot comprehend. I am alone. The lighting is far too dim to provide a stable state of mind.Then another imperceptible blip in my episodic memory and I am crying. Not crying in an appalling way, I am walking still, I am not blubbing. Tears just run down my cheeks, no more. A feeling of neither despair nor relief, what you see is what you get.But yes, consistent with my recent past, I cant comprehend to what extent today will get away from me. All I can presume is that it will be to an extent where I am reduced to the little idiot in the room, not knowing when to feed herself or how to pass the time. Not knowing how the arrangements of the situation were ever conceived.If Id possessed self-awareness at that moment. The last episode to the point I can recall. With that lady. I may have been able to kiss her. To rest with her.But deep down I know, companionship becomes harder with time, the longer you are isolated in the world with only your own perspective for company. Finding kinship is swimming for a sinking stone.Michael Blumenthal said;You are holding up a ceilingwith both arms. It is very heavy,but you must hold it up, or elseit will fall down on you. Your armsare tired, terribly tired,and, as the day goes on, it feelsas if either your arms or the ceilingwill soon collapse.

But then,unexpectedly,something wonderful happens:Someone,a man or a woman,walks into the roomand holds their arms upto the ceiling beside you.

So you finally getto take down your arms.You feel the relief of respite,the blood flowing backto your fingers and arms.And when your partner's arms tire,you hold up your ownto relieve him again.

And it can go on like thisfor many yearswithout the house falling.

I do not wish to say anything profound, directly after words of actual substance, but what I will ask is this: Can I safely go seeking simple human comforts? Marriage?Similar to being drunk; after particularly distressing events my memory presents itself to me as if none of what transpired ever really happened. It is a useful distancing mechanism which reduces immediate post-trauma stress, I am informed. Conversely, to deny reality in such a way is, Im informed, unhealthy.6. The intervening period was filled with what I can impress as white noise. Not a sensation in the ears, but the sensation of thick nothingness which drowns any details of surroundings out. As if I was tremendously tired.A snappy voice twitched me out of my trance.I dont like being twodden on, you know I dont like being twodden on! A voice pestered in childish and grotesquely posh tones.You alright? I ask, admittedly I am condescending but seeing vulnerability here presents an opportunity to cover my own tracks and cracks.I become aware that I am in one of the Hotels many non-descript hallways, there are lights buzzing in isolated spots around me, nothing betrays the norm.Im the Eton fag and I hate being twodden, do you understand me? The mousy man asks me, he stand several inches under me and has a pathetic attempt for a stylish haircut. The hair itself clearly neither washed nor cut for months. He is wearing a damp suit and strikes a humorous mix of tramp and hung-over student.Why are you the Eton fag? I ask, trying to mask my contempt.Because Im the youngest, its not fair, age is a bloody arbitrary number. Do you understand me mortal?Are you okay? I ask, maintaining my paternal front but sincere in my concern.No, everyone always tweds on me, He frowns, pauses for contemplation, Am in Eton. Fag?Fag I reply flatly, thrown back into echoes of my panic state.He sneers, Tweddy smells blood.Fag! He shouts, giggly in a high pitched squeal, You silly, silly fag! Pick up briefs immediately or I will be forced to contact those who may or may not be! He squeaks in glee.Stephen Fry. I state having regained some composure.This delights little Tweddy, who begins jumping from foot to foot in increasing excitement. He trots down the hallway away from me. Screaming:MOAB IS MY WASHPOT FAGGY TWEDDY TWODDY! BLONDES WITH OR WITHOUT BLUE EYES! IM NOT GOLLUM FOR I HAVE NO ADDICTION THOUGH IM A BIT OF ALKY BUT NOT MUCH OF AN ALKY! I pursue Tweddy. He unexpectedly stops dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly to face me, and raises his cupped hand to my ear, without intent to assault or anything.I am a bit of an alky. He whispers, in his true voice.*I have been asked to kill before, but only ever by the person who requested the act itself. It has only happened once, James had sung Hallelujah to me and I had cried, after he posed the question;Kill me James or Jim, I recall him saying. I could only decline, retreat to my room, and scrawl these words on my bedroom wall. I was instructed to paint them over the next day.*On this occasion Twoddy shrieked it as he ran along the hallway out my sight, he shrieked it all along on his merry way, with such an aura of euphoria around him.He shrieked it wherever he went; Kill Me!I then realised how fortunate I was to even be able to conceive that the day was getting away from me, unlike poor old Tweddy over here.Diddy.A jolt to my ears, I looked around for any transmitter of the stimuli; none to be found.Diddy.But there it was again.Then I remembered an after-image of such a word being spoken to me once before, a very long time ago.Its cold outside Diddy.Its okay, we can get some honey soap and melons water on that bump, and then, oh well then; you will be the belle of the ball.Huh, at least Im still aware of the flaws which are developing, all as fragments around me, the determined child inside my womb curls up in defiance.

7. It is four thirty, I have switched on my laptop, and out of the tinny speaker: Rod Stewart,I think I know now what's making me sadIt's a yearnin' for my own back yardI realize maybe I was wrong to leaveBetter swallow up my silly country prideWhat can I say, when things hit such a familiar discord I cant poeticise boring existence anymore. What is left is bland, predictable, and varying only inside inconsequential details. I quote these lyrics with no thought, but purely because I cant conjure anything. I can only quote what is currently right in front of me.Take me back, carry me backDown to Gasoline Alley where I started fromI remember being seventeen, worrying how all my friends were dancing off down the ever narrowing path. I dimly recall such a mood as this being described as writers block. But it is just life without the baggage, without the emotional content, without the romanticising of ambiguity.I remember laughing at what were all these idiots. But now Im in De Pazzi, and I dont drink or smoke. But what keeps swinging in my head is this:Im not much of an alky but Im a bit of an alky.To meddle with the aesthetic:I saw Jesus!I arise from my bed; resentful of my own inconsistencies. I pick up a birthday card James made for me a number of months ago. It has of front cover of a spiral which is covered in glitter, the kind you can buy from stationery stores. I notice the glitter float to the floor, the open card a tiny rain cloud.

8. The general philosophical consensus in De Pazzi, I gather, is that of Solipsism: this being the belief that only ones mind is sure to exist. Therefore nothing which occurs can be seen as definitely consequential. It is all only possible to exist, many see it functional to decide it doesnt exist, that it is construction of perspective.If you look outside De Pazzi, amongst the general populous, the majority of people are realists, this being a belief in reality as an external system somewhat independent of perspective. It is the current cultural default to believe this. It is also logical to my mind.Here I think it is important to comment upon what the two kinds of madness are:One can suffer from too much objectivity, where no physiological chemical boosts can affect how things are perceived, as with one of regular health. You are left to stagnate. No relief in the form of variety will be taken, which is a constant hum of boredom for others. A more extreme case of this leads to depression, where one cannot find any motivation to even push their brain forward in the smallest of ways.One can also suffer from too much subjectivity, where physiological chemical boosts in the body are skewed terribly to the point of mania, paranoia, ecstasy, despair. Moods like the weather.I find, as do many others, that my life has boiled down to bouncing from being too objective to too subjective back to too objective.These factors, although they may influence, do not account for humanitys evils.

9. The trouble with my girlfriend is that we never reach the resolution of sincerity. The silences we share are convenient, when there is nothing for her to comment on anymore.James said these words to me on the ledge of the roof of De Pazzi, at a relatively early time of nine o clock. It was raining Conveniently. I remember the events that followed with undiminished clarity.I dont know if I can do it you know. James admits to me.After a time I suggest he should toss a coin, I hand him one.What should I do? He asks me.Assign living or jumping to head and tails respectively. But dont move until you tell me what it has landed on. I tell him.He flicks it up into the air, it falls down into the earth below. I hand him another coin.Again, I instruct.He repeats, successfully this time.Heads, He says.Meaning?I live. He bursts into fresh tears, James steps down from the ledge, collapsing into my arms. This has clearly been an exhausting ordeal for him.But why? Because of a coin toss, James?I couldnt make that decision for myself.So what would you have done had it landed on tails? Would you have taken control of your own actions in that case?At this point we ducked through the window that led us back to De Pazzis interior.Once we were back into a non-descript hallway, far enough into the building that we wouldnt be able to retrace our steps to the roof again; James spoke:Kill me James or Jim, I recall him saying. I could only decline, retreat to my room, and scrawl these words on my bedroom wall. I was instructed to paint them over the next day.

10. I am staring at myself in the mirror in my room at ten oclock, it is not a part of my routine. I say only this;Nah, I yawn for effect, Im going to see James. I would say that youve lubricated my condition, but in truth youve simply distracted me from it. Which is usually bad news, I have to catch up with myself even more now. Something I never do, but it is not nice to lose sight of my running shadow so early in the day.

11. So I leave my room and begin my lone walk to James room, as I do every evening. What thoughts are going through my mind at present? Nothing which goes beyond what we really feel all the time. So then what are these words? If I am only thinking to feel, from where do these words spawn?Is it the voice of my narrator? My suppressed? My guiding hand?Is it that of my carer? My lover? My brother?Ah, no. To be most concise, as I it is every evening at a time like this, it is the voice of my father.That eternal example of living which is dangled in front of you from birth to grave. That which tells you things at three of o clock in the morning. Which cries out at the most intimate moments of what you dared to call before; freedom.I say father for that is the voice for me. For others it is most commonly God, it is he who you have always leered over the ledge to peek at.

12. I softly knock upon his darkened door at the end of the hall. A grunt responds, wrought with a pain familiar to me.I enter as unthreateningly as possible, shutting the door behind myself. Sometimes James is in the corner, but today he is under the bed. I hear him softly sobbing.Can you hear the cats, James? I call out to him.An indistinct whimper of true terror responds. I goad him further.I can hear the cats James! I whisper with a whiff of excitement. Theyre calling to you James!I wait for an indistinct moment of time.Meow? He asks me.They say, James, they say that theyre going to get you! I raise my voice a little, dancing between threatening and humorous.James hisses from under the bed, I hear a thud on the mattresses underside as he arches his back.They say you need to catch Ratty, James. They say a mousetrap wont do.Naughty cat, He replies to me, in a voice so regular. This part always take me aback.Jimmywimmy? I call out tentatively.Yes dad? Jimmy calls out to me. Verging on tears again, the silly boy.Mummys leaving tomorrow, I want you to go and buy vegetable oil this instant. I hope Jimmywimmy wont hate himself like I always have. I think this to myself and no-one else. No-one else could ever hope to grasp the meaning of these words. Only two people ever shared this exchange.A vial of vegetable oil is produced from under the bed, the very same. I know as I can hear the clink of it rolling across the wooden floor. The clink is different though, weve never been able to consistently reproduce the clink.

13. It is I crying now. We are sitting upon the bed, not interacting, but trying to converge nevertheless.We both know that when we are able we shall adopt the third position.After an indistinct moment of time I curl up at the foot of the bed whilst James lies in missionary feigning sleep. We must both wait seven minutes for James to slowly rise. He got little sleep he recalls.He prods me like he would any other morning.Jim? He calls me happily. I always made the prospect of waking and dressing a little easier for him.James frowns, I have never seen him frown, but he tells me this is what he does. He prods me again.Jimmy? He says more loudly, more desperately. He feels my neck, Ive made sure to slow my pulse down and apply the furry neck brace.Then the pause, the seventeen second pause, he tells me.Mum! He shrieks. Mum! Mum! Mum! So genuine is his cry, he flips off his covers and I fall to the floor, uncaring of how I land. James runs out of the room, slamming the door open.I will not be seeing James again tonight by mutual consent.

14. There I lie, on the floor by the bed, splayed. I feel the light on the lids of my eyes. I must lie here for another twelve minutes. The time it takes for James to scramble out of De Pazzi as fast as he can.Sometimes James and I laugh, how its as if were designed to meet at nine oclock.The following sequence of internal events corresponds to a mental list I prepare for these evenings.Detach indexed locations. Unwire network of self-preservation. Unhinge impulse for articulation. Decline communication. Redirect resistance to plague.

15. Sit down Mr Fernham. A nurse informs me. I have requested to be referred to by my surname only. Jen will be here in a moment.Jen walks through the door into the office where I am sat. It is nine oclock in the morning.Hi, Mr. Fernham. Jen smiles at me. I smile back, perfectly emulating sincerity.How are you? I ask,Oh, Im fine. She smiles.Can you ask me the questions please? I dont mean to be rude but I am little eager.The depression questions? She asks,Yes,But I doubt youre depressed, I have to ask you these every day Mr Fernham.It would improve my mood. I tell her.She sighs, Fine silly.I twitch.Are you doing everything slowly? She asks me exasperatedly, knowing my answers already. I nod every time.Does your future seem hopeless? Do you find it hard it hard to concentrate when you read? Has all joy and pleasure disappeared from your life? Do you find it hard to make decisions? Have you lost interest in that which used to mean a lot to you? Do you feel sad depressed and unhappy feel restless cant relax tired struggle with even trivial things. She inhales for breath.Do you feel guilty like you deserve to be punished? Failure? Empty? Disturbed sleep? Wonder about practical methods of suicide? Confined? When bad when you should feel good? Fat? Anorexic? Black? Hairy? Without a haircut within the last six months? No claims in the last four years?Jen looks at me with an amused disbelief. She is not at all an unkind woman, she tolerates all of my eccentricities.Must we commit this ritual every day, Mr Fernham?Im afraid we must, for the system to continue how we practice it, I reply curtly.So I suppose you want the hypnotherapy debriefing questions now? I know I do not need to reply.What is your name?Jim Fernham,What is your fathers name?James Fernham,What is your mothers name?Missus Fernham,What is your mothers maiden name?Missus Fernham,Where are you currently?De Pazzi, madam,Where do you take residency?De Pazzi, madam,For how long?De Pazzi, madam,How long, Mr Fernham, Jen makes an audible groan of impatience.Ah, that would be the last three quarterly terming semesters in the terms of Floridas sequential system.I see, Jen says with resolution, she stands and gestures me to the door, That will be all for today,

16. I will not resolve to life being strictly cyclical, but merely reproducible. It requires a certain reset. Why do we hide from the monsters as children when we go to sleep? It is the process of rejecting the monsters for another day, putting them back into their box until they start leaking out again the following evening. This is the function of sleep, and furthermore, of balance.I will not resolve life to be cyclical, for if it were the case; right after I got out of bed, as I have at the exact same time for the last week, surely I would have encountered that very same rough looking stranger in the hallway again.However the sameness of it all is damning. For as I find myself walking down the corridor on the way to breakfast at ten o clock this morning I find myself tipping an imaginary cap to a passer-by, commenting;You know what? This is a hotel!? Im laughing heartily to myself.