r a n d o m

The sky is black. No, not entirely black. It is also white, punctuated by white bursts of light. Ah, makes me want to be an astronomer. Astronomy, the study of what is beyond. I wish to go beyond, and beyond, and beyond. What lies out ... there? Not in here, this room. Crickets chirp, communicating with one another. What do they say? What does each chirp, each utterance convey? Is it a desperate plea or a quiet request? Hear my voice. This room is quiet, modestly cluttered. The blinds are open, the black of the outside night lies in wait behind the glass. Inside the yellow tinted light shines, softly. This room is a constant. Nights spent here are quiet. This room is bright. This room is a black hole, only befitting for its resident. How fitting, cry the crickets. As fitting as is the padded room for the straitjacket laden patient.