Entry Thirteen
Blue Pen

           Hey thar, Blue Book.

Sarah came back and I'm glad. She even gave me a new pen to write with since I told her the ink in my red one is starting to run out. She gives me a funny look and I don't know why. I just got fed up with the color. A few hours before she came in I had taken apart the pen and let the ink run on the back of the book. I'm tired of red. I've also been doodling a little bit on the blank pages to keep my mind occupied for the next couple of days while I recover, seeing as I had nothing to write about. They've upped my dose of medication and, thus, I haven't been feeling up to par lately. Even my writing is a bit illegible, but legible enough for me to read if I ever go back to it again. I'll probably burn this journal if I ever get out of here.

Thankfully Sarah has been very kind to me. She came in with some cranberry juice, which I mistook for wine at first, which would've been all kinds of awkward. She then told me that that would be off rules for her and she could lose her job if she did have wine. Not wanting the kind nurse lady to lose her job, I didn't ask for any favors. She then went on telling me that the juice ought to help my immune system. Guess she didn't take into consideration that I've got myself an immune system of steel.

I shut up, eat the soup and sandwich she brought to me, and drink my damn juice. She gives me a book to read while I'm bored. Poetry, no less: Archibald MacLeish. What the crap? Well, better than what I had. All I've got in here is a radio, and only the AM station works so it's either this or listening to talk shows the whole day long.

I ask Sarah about the chip in the wall. She checks and tells me that there is no chip. Of course there's no chip. But I can still feel his eyes watching me.

Later she brings in a plant for me to take care of and watch. It's a nice little poppy flower that sits by the window and soaks in the bright, warm rays of sunshine and allows me to think of better things.

My hand like this, I'm not even going to bother with my signature anymore. Feel cheated, bitch? Too bad. I got me a flower that's prettier than you and a nice, new pen so there ain't a goddamn thing you can do about it. There. All I have to say is:  

Fuck you, Blue Book. You and all your blue.

Fuck. You.

--Alexander

The End of the World by Archibald MacLeish

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over

Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,

There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover,

There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,

There in the sudden blackness the black pall

Of nothing, nothing, nothing--nothing at all.
 

Hey, I find I rather like this book. Shut up.

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