5/21/2025 - Asylum Run

I woke up in quiet concern and unsettle. The dreams were still there, sharp and unshaken.

First, I was a patient in a condemned asylum for "behaviorally challenged" children—a rotting operation still grinding along. They pumped us full of something that made the hallucinations worse, not better. The staff watched, blank-eyed, as we unraveled.

Then, I was running. Naked, from the top of the Ridges, my bare feet slapping cracked pavement. Staffers turned their heads as I passed, but I didn’t meet their stares. Just straight ahead, always ahead.

Later, I lived in my car—a small hatchback with a pop-up tent and no cooler. Water leaked in the back, a constant seep. There were people who could’ve helped, but the dream whispered the truth: _You don’t have the friends you had ten years ago._

I sat up. The room was quiet. My hands were steady. No breakdown. Just the ghost of a dream, and the day waiting.