Dear Journal:

Its August now. The calendar in the hall by the medicine room says so. Outside once green Poplar trees are looking dry and tired. Their big leaves drooping in the afternoon haze. The window is like a TV show to me, 'cause I can't go outside. Not this week, at least. I tried to run off last Saturday, I thought I heard the Good Humor man and I ran towards the road. The big security guy with the crewcut said this town ain't got no ice cream trucks. I didn't argue with him, on account of his mace.

Last night we had a big storm. Lights flashing in and out of the hospital and big crashes of thunder. The older patients giggled when they saw some staff jump at the sound. It dont bother us none. We all love outside chaos. (My doctor says its "equilibrium," but I don't know what that means).

I got a package from my Mom today. Some smokes, some new underwear and a magazine about Cats. The nurses went and took all the staples out so its a mess to read, but the kittens are all cute. She didn't include any kind of message this time. I guess those collect calls bothered her, but if I didn't talk to her those men from the government would have taken over her land. Somebody had to alert her.

Im going to bed now, its dreadful quiet and I dont want to get in trouble for sneaking this pen. I hide it with the knife I stole from the cafeteria up there in the ceiling. SHH! It's a secret.

for dustfromamoth, who wonders about things

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