Death.

i often said that the walls surrounding me were scribbled with words, mirroring the insanity of communication surrounding me before i was contained to that box. white walls, white-washed, a clean blank pure canvas, my dreams echoing around me in pure language.

i have the power to tell right from wrong. this is an intensely volatile skill of mine. i've been given sharp utensils as a mistake. i take them and scratch on surfaces. incise and let the feeling flow however it desires. the results are infinite. long and windy, released of any regulations, reaching beyond the corner, beyond the length width, beyond the box. eventually there becomes a saturation beyond comprehension. language, words, as you and i thought we knew them, cannot speak these marks. i can listen vastly or deeply and hear it, see it clearly as an aura both surrounding and penetrating me, and make my decision from that point onward… while sitting in this room with nothing but white light.