Asylum

Born in the broken hut of an old story he persists as a writing, as words hammered from his own breath. There is not enough of the right kind of madness in the world, too much reasonableness has led to an increasing violence. He spoke as if he knew, but the writer but scribbled his mind barely thinking, only persevering. He arrives in the cradle of each morning fully clothed in words as a somebodies best and worst idea yet only the most keen eared of souls will know how deeply he is walled-in by dread and an appalling silence.