Sarah Gregory.

There is a world out there that I no longer understand. I mean I remember some of the details, but now they only puzzle me. Images of myself playing tag with the neighborhood friends of my childhood, holding hands with Desiree on the curb of a parking lot, the thrill of bustling through the mucky fairgrounds in the fall, all these things have lost their relevance. I no longer understand what it felt like to interact, to feel.
I'm starting to believe that none of it ever mattered anyways. There is no one to know but the inside of our own head anyways. No way to truly know anybody else. Maybe it is better to stop pretending that we ever can. How was I fooled for so long? The clock is ticking. With every tick I believe I can feel the microscopic movement of my hair and my nails seeping out of my body. They are telling me that time is passing and still my body in all its futility is going through its senseless cycles. I am tired of eating. It takes so much effort and it is never ending. We have to constantly fill ourselves with things, with food, with distractions, with ideas of purpose, so that we can continue to fill the world with our waste, our worthless shit. I am fading into a sea of grains of sand. There is no difference between my body and the fibers of this couch, of the plaster on these walls. We are molecules idly vibrating if you look close enough; waiting for a purpose. And until then we will continue to aimlessly vibrate, distracting ourselves with our own electrons and pretending that it is important that they stay in motion. I wonder how much more research it will take them to realize these things.

Kneesmith.

I wonder if they’re still watching me. Sometimes I find myself looking around for a sign that I haven’t been forgotten. For some reassurance that I haven’t been lost among endless stacks of paperwork in some medical lab miles away. But what use is it. No use to concern myself with matters out of my control now. So I’m left to my vices. The 11 o’clock news, the daily “TuffTown” internet comic strip, and probably a book or two from the online Google library. My vices. My beautiful distractions from this unfortunate predicament. How I fucking despise them. They have let me experience sunrises and sunsets, beautiful ethereal women I only knew in dreams, the taste of fine wines, conversations with Gods and Devils, and all of this is so fleeting. In the end I’ll still die in here and death will wipe me out as if I was no bigger than the mice I can hear in my walls at night. Just like the bastards who trapped me here and just like the authors, directors, and producers of all that distracts me. Good God this is my casket.