Brittle blisters plucked his skin, tapped and stubbed, like spent cigarettes,
His fingers setting the typewriter alight. The ink slapped onto the paper by the fragile arms of the machine. L..AM…HERE.

Crunching the three words over and over, poised into this spectacle.

I AM HERE. I AM HERE?
HERE I AM.. AM I HERE?

Until just now these words had not been there and then, punched into existence , pinched from the air in his skull.

From any therapeutic standpoint, he wasn’t quite all there. Nonetheless he wasn’t insane, because he knew he was mad.