spelt

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the doors were locked.

The feeling in his head: locked dead. On the floor, on the floor in his head: dead. The door, open, wearing a vast bib of blood.

Blood-crusted the bloody nose shocked; Shocked to death, his mouth, like the door.

The door opened... "Come in," but

canto 29.02.08.115

not my problem coming or not no way to linger longing looking

nothing to be done nothing to be done

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the hanged man with his tight little accent a fart like a party horn blown by a kid with asthma

apparently felt at home on the couch for almost an hour

you must be joking must be joking

he shouted and pulled a butcher knife out of his belt

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an enormous slab of greasy salt-and-pepper ponytail staggering backward, dazed, speaking-in-tongues gibberish, crying out:

"Hey dickweed!" "Yeah, you!" "I'm talking to you!"

with a girl, one knee on the sidewalk, screaming:

"Honey, honey, don't."

canto 29.02.11.118

these days conversation consisted of mutely-loud simply-brooding open-to-the-world-as-patiently-as-suicide heavy thump

canto 29.02.12.119

these things      weren't the important things

for one thing outside something would make things worse

still, outside      things have changed      something made silent

the same things but mostly      something      absolutely

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 37-53.