Truly, time is nothing more than a mere illusion—ticking away at a never-certain speed. Seconds become hours; hours become seconds. It is just as maddening to ponder as it is to wait in what feels like an insane asylum.
There has been no news of the conditions of Fecebrum. They have trapped me in this lonely void, leaving a basket of food for meals. Poetry and writing have become the only way I am capable of rejecting insanity. It ticks by, nothing happens, time is against me. Writing and poetry—all I can do.
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Save me! save me! from the wretched thoughts.
I feel pitied by the people still happily casting out lots.
To see a human soul is all I ask.
Living life at this moment has become a great task.
Break from the monotony; show me something unique!
These pain-filled bare walls are sickeningly bleak!
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I’m on the seventeenth day of quarantine. Looking out the window longingly, I question what had become of my neighbors. I thought I had seen one many days ago, but it hardly looked human: glazed eyes, pale as a ghost, twitchy and nervous fingers, a scalping head, an angry expression worn across its face. I didn’t know what to think of it. I hadn’t heard of Fecebrum until the announcement, and the consequences of it seemed vital.
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A face that appears every night in my bed,
haunting visions full of dread filling my head.
No escape; no way out, from the pale, watching face—
one that seized to exist before I saw it in that place.
It will never leave me—and push it away, I can’t.
So the assault on my sanity will continue its rant.
Freedom! freedom! why haven’t you come to me?
Take me from the void to where I long to be!
ns 15.158.61.6da2
