How long I have been lying here in my own filth? I cannot remember how many times, if at all I have called for help. I do not know what time it is, what day or year even. I want to go home but someone else lives there now and would not let me in. As I stare helpless at the bland ceiling my mind is not empty, just full of holes. Frightening blank spaces and a blur of terrifying indistinct shapes of uncertain scale and meaning; but further back it is as if a lens has been twisted. Things come into sharp focus, vivid, things I did not realize I had forgotten. These memories are tangible, thought and feeling are still as one. lean still remember something of the person I once was. I feel as if I can still crack a joke if not an egg.
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