A simile of a smile appears to be the only thing you're willing to trade for an hour of my time. Like long line tuna fleets you drop your hooks and fish for compliments you haven't earned- thirsty for words dripping in false sentiment. Analogous green shapes resemble a mountain in the distance, the clouds are beautifully painted on the ceiling, the lightbulb symbolising the sun is surprisingly soft and warm, all the while I am tethered to a post, pacing perfect circles when I strain to walk, like a totem tennis match against the ghost who haunts the halls.

Craving white noise or at least a little more silence from the pale person on the other side of the once white wall I'm hiding behind.
It's a Sunday so why can't you speak in your church voice instead you're part of the choir. Leave this heathen in heavenly solitude instead of verbalising every thought that has ever transpired, opinions that any other would have aborted or edited to sound less stupid.