There is a room. Inside the room is a pad, written on the pad is an address. The address is my address. The writing is not mine.
There is a small scrap of paper. I eat the small scrap of paper. It is the first thing I have eaten all day.
People keep shouting at me as I walk down the street. I am supposed to be under cover. I am supposed to be invisible.
My tongue is too big for my mouth, my cheeks have swollen up. I can’t breath. I CAN’T BREATH.
I crash through a glass door, the door doesn’t break but the noise it makes is worse than anything I have heard for days, worse than a hundred fingernails slowly scraping down a blackboard. A tiny bell rings and I fall to the floor in a heap.
I have no idea where I am.
If I could only sleep