Consistently, my thoughts are gathered around coughs, slammed doors, and hidden car horns.
What do they mean?
I have vague memories of endless walking and blisters full of blood on my feet;
I'm calling my friends 'brother' and 'sister';
I'm having a seizure fertile with meaning;
I'm seeing loose theological references in my usually dry dull days, and telling everyone!
"I saw my mother's eyes go black!"
I have walked this damn 'U' shaped, tenth floor centre for weeks!
Get me out.

The puzzle of the night sky left out to be solved is unfairly missing pieces.
The smoking room is the only space where outside air gets in to us;
     Pigeons fly up to check on us, and we watch the sky brighten and fade dark.
We smoke and peel back the skin of oranges carefully,
     As if entire universes die in each fruit's eating.
Angels bleed over our fingers as we strip apart their sections and hand them to one another.
My mother's eyes go back.

I have decided to eat fish on Friday, and forgo my ambition to eat only bread soaked in orange juice,
     Though I know it is ambrosia and the forbidden food of angels.
I want to sprout wings from where my shoulders link into my back
     --Real wings!  
I'll never get out unless I become a bird.
Until I become a bird
Let me out.

We line up for our meds at night.
They come out of a strange machine with lights and steady humming.
The nurse is friendly enough; she pushes some buttons in sequence and hands us our dose in little cups.
We take them because we believe there is a being better in us that will take over in time.
We will become the freedom we sense is unattainable, and be released into a clear night air without fear or fluorescents.

My room is meticulously organized and designed to my every imagining.
My bag is packed with everything I will want in my new life, from my last.
I lace my shoes through the straps on my bag and place them with finality beside my bed before I sleep.
I hope they will become dogs and pull me and my bag into the reality I am creating as the more familiar one escapes my reach.  
I have sewn dimes into their tongues.
I am tired.
I am careful to close my door without setting it in its frame because I am scared.
I am scared that I don't know which is the real real;
That I am on to something with my imaginings;
That there is more to find out before I am let out, but that I will never get it all.