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.