Insane Asylums and Squids

     Oh dear. Where have I landed myself today? I see walls covered in blood, excrement, and short phrases of desperation. Has someone played a cruel joke on me? Have they trashed and impurified my room?

     Or have I finally been driven to the point of madness? I doubt the latter, but it remains a possibility.

     A few horrific screams rattle the walls. A few people of indeterminable gender cower in the other corners of the room. Distrust fills the air.

     A particularly ugly woman opens the door. "Mealtime!" she shouts in a gruff and masculine voice. Se slides a tray to the center of the room and leaves, locking the door behind her.

     On the tray sit four bowls of a questionable substance. I perceive that it has no more nutritional value that the unsanitary mixture of disgusting miscellany on the walls.

     I do not eat.

     I lose my senses as time passes. We who share these quarters have no window. The variety of people that share their duties of feeding and "rehabilitating" us come at untimely and irregular intervals.

     I seek to keep from growing bored, as boredom can only lead to madness. Instead, I choose to entertain notions of why I found myself in this place.

     ...I find no satisfactory answer on my own. One day, however, I find a paper amongst my possessions. The writing was horrifying. The topic was disturbing. It seemed that I was placed here for writing about insane asylums and squids.

     Oh the lamentable irony. Squids rather bore me.