thelinilshow: Journals of Mr. KoOk – my state, my face, my day: breaketh

Notes by Grey:
On the request of Gary Taylor (Dr. and CEO, fleet street asylum), this document has been edited with parenthesized words to help improve understanding… The parenthesized word were gotten from further sessions with Mr. linil KoOk in countless attempts to have him further clarify the vague parts of his journal in successive attempts to preserve its context.
For reference to original text, please ignore words in parentheses.

thelinilshow: journals of Mr. KoOk
(my state, my face, my day: breaketh)

Memo:  tls117
Date: 6 hours after I lost track

My name is still KoOk.
And this may be my one seventh (ie» 117th journal) or so… I really don’t know and can’t tell.
I’ve lost (my) sense of smell and track of time, but I’ve been counting (the) seconds, till my journal was brought (to me).

I still recognize people.
But not standards or moral. Not that we need those here. But I feel like you (should) know.
I’ve lost all my ability to say sense. I (think) correctly (but) speak it all wrong. And I can’t explain that too.
In my sessions with Grey, I just blab around rubbish, even while (my) writing is clearly expressing (my real) thoughts. (So in) their hopes to tie my mind to this world, (they) asked me to write my feelings. They say my journals may earn me freedom, at worst, they’ll only take away (from me) my ability to ever speak.
Don’t be deceived by what I write. I’m told that I’m mad. Ironical or contradictory, shall (I) say(? And) I’ve been doing this for so, so long. For as long as the pads & the paint came.

My roomy’s name was Jean Henry. Yes: he’s french; he’s  8… and alive.
But he’s bearded, and deep voiced, (and) overly grown (for) a child, so they won’t ever let him (go) home.
His mother calls every night, but we (can) never reach the phone. Its sealed in a glass box (too) high.

He tells me things (he) did yesterday,
The day before, (and) three days after that. I never know how he does gets out. I only (later) see him waving (through) my hole, every time I awake (to pick the) ink and pad (the nurse had kept) in my (peep) hole.

I listen (to) him run and play. And always… getting yelled at;
Sometimes just standing at corridors;
Sometimes crying to see his sister.
He said “…today, Shirley promised”, to take him to see Joan. But only if he was quiet for 6 weeks. And for that so long he said not one word.
And to help him, I did what I could.
I kettled my voice and forbade it speech.

I paid attention as usual. Quiet, as he’d tell (me) more and more stories. No speaking, (just) signs, describing… getting frustrated whenever I missed it… but ever still silent, till 6 weeks elapsed. And he left and he came, and he sat. Depressed… less happy than should.

He said today he visited Shirley, and he’s afraid (that) he might have done something bad. Shirley’s (other) condition (according to Jean) was to shave him, but (then she) mentioned Joan just “not being” (real or alive). & how it was really an accident… & how right now, Miss old Shirley won’t move.

He said, he stayed by (her) all night,
Crying, (in) silence, (in) fear, (in the) dark, nudging, (and) shaking (her), Choking (out) her name; pulling (at) her arm all night, till her palm (went) chill, and tight… Feeling cold as the tile on floor. Now thick (in) red “…with water”

Its sun up now, (and he’s) here crying,
Trying to explain why he stayed out all night till first light.
(I hear) foot steps…
(A) crowd…
Then (the) rushing (of) clangs (in) unlocking my door. From my (peep) hole, One (said),
“We’re only here for the kid”.
In little steps, he runs to me. (He) holds my shoulder, finding (for) space (to) fit between my back and (the) wall. They’re in, and (I’m) up-
“Step back!!! …and away from the boy”
He looks up at me, eyes swollen and red, and cries,
“Pleeeease… don’t let them take me”.
And in that moment, again, for a small task as aiding a child: I feel like (a) god, reduced (to) wishing.

I sit back (in) my corner; (my) hands between my head. His voice fading; their’s rising… His, down the hallway; Their’s, all up in my head. All at once my skull knocks back in surge with sterile pain… Brazening and pulsing… and cracking in between… (and) over, (and) over, (and) over.
I hear their yells and (my) disappointment loops on every time I’d failed… so (I) scream… (and) scream… relentless till (I) black(out),

I awake to my hole (or peep bars) in sight. Orderly bent, in meat and in color… flesh loose on my forehead… more hang off the bars. Still trapped and locked in a cell; Bound in white, with shoulders dislodged; Stripped of name and face… My reward yet once more: another level yet lower.
With hopes still clearly taboo.
People still pray looking up (not down) if to a God, but here where do I start? Everywhere here is a floor… So whether its up or its down… I descend.

%!%!% `oO,

Submitted by: Phil Q. Grey (Dr.)
Asylum Room: withheld
Writer’s name: withheld and encrypted

Reviewed by Mason Jodi (Dr.) [OUT Research Consultant]
Comment: Speechless
Prescription: 6 days seated with face up, feet bare on wet floor
(leave in mirror room till personalities reduce)…
If disorder improves, move lower to B12 (schizo complex/ward). Reset custody to Alan Mace (Dr.) and notify Gordon Spacey (CEO, noon paq asylum)

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