Boring. Boring. Boring. (1)
Puking, vomiting, sweating… Boring. Boring. Boring.
Sleeping, waking up, eating mushed up food, puking, vomiting, sweating. Boring. Boring. Boring.
Shivering, tremors, headache, stomachache… Boring. Boring. Boring.
They want me to read poetry to calm my mind. I have already read those books. Boring. Boring. Boring.
They serve herbal tea. All tea tastes like urine. Boring. Boring. Boring.
They are so easy to read. Some words, some nuanced whispers to their ears, and they are already charmed. Boring. Boring. Boring.
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They are whispering and murmuring behind my back. Boring. Boring. Boring.
The supposed drugs for my withdrawal is not good enough. It does not elate me. Boring. Boring. Boring.
I folded every single origami pattern I know. Repeatedly. Boring. Boring. Boring.
I gave Raphael a lotus origami. Only to be thrown to this place. This boring place. Filled with nothing but mewling swine. Not even force, not even threats. Some glances and carefully raised eyebrows, and they feel inadequate. Immediately. Boring. Boring. Boring.
Staff is overtly nice. Makes me feel nothing. They are so nice. It bores me to the death. I hit my head to the walls. Then got subdued. Boring. Boring. Boring.
I should break my leg. To get painkillers. No. They would only give ibuprofen. It is not enough.
I should pull my fingernails off. Endorphins. I need something. Anything.