frazzled, unexpected, scrounged in a ball in the corner, with the different lullabies flying overhead, the masked patient is ready for his medication, won't be easy, and it won't last very long

he claws for a bit of rope, a bit of escape, a bit of cloud, the room is full of them now, and on he wails, on he dreams, waiting for something better to come, the lifeline is weak

what is this masked, dazed man to do, when his nails are down to the nub and he no longer has anything to reach out for?  the images on the television seem frightening, violent, ******, threatening, or sad, what is he to do?  throws the blanket over his eyes, counts, 1, 2, 3, and wishes it all to disappear

and disappear it does, he is away, he is blank, it is white, more like eggshell, there are bumpy edges, but smooth to the touch, sensual, and his little citadel is all he needs to know, all he needs to remember, and the worries of reaching the lifeline slowly begin to fade, like a sign in the rearview mirror on the highway, go along, go along, go along, and in his squatted position he rolls around, the sensual feeling is all there is, all that needs to be, cloaking his skin like a hot shower, like a nicotine buzz, like a drunken stupor, yes, nothingness

no conflict, no nothing, no insights, no roots to uproot, no, just the eggshell room, his citadel, his life