He roamed the outer fringes of sanity. Protecting his soul from the silent darkness. His weapons were few. Aluminum foil, duct tape and a Barry Manilow cd.
He remembered warm, humid nights at the Copacabana, a blue-eyed beauty on his arm with whom he had once shared a dance. Or was it matching straight jackets they had shared in the waiting room at Las Encinas. He could not recall for his memory had been scrubbed clean with electric sandpaper in a room benignly labeled "Utility Closet" by a suit with a misguided sense of irony.
Despite the terminal wattage voices continued calling out "Marco Polo" as he blindly grappled with the emptiness in search of a moment's peace. Beyond the horizon of what once was his reality little green gremlins chased the sandman away. Leaving him contemplating four white walls and a door less closet, where his sanity had been pressed and hung. Useless armor against sharpened needles; promising a new tomorrow wielded by doctors claiming to offer only sustenance.
He knew better. Bitter experience prepared him for the unvarnished truth. Behind the surgical masks renaissance clowns were laughing manically.
And he screamed.
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