Im tired of this God damn mess. This conversation holds it all together. I cant decide if I want to participate or be the center of the conversation itself. My attention is often tested when the feeling of fear is mentioned. They refer to it as "a threat to a more free way of life." Sand in my eyes doesn't allow for the focus needed to move, or even try to understand that sentiment. I hear the ticking, and i can barely remember a fucking thing. O' eight hundred hours ago I was finishing the bottle of rye i found a mile off compound inside that empty school, looking for a magic marker. I recall asking Doc something like "hey, what kinda supplies you holdin' in that there box you got with the fancy sketchbook?" He handed me one after I took my last sip. I must have gave him the idea that I didn't understand the value of his his little hobby, because he looked at me almost like he had something to prove. We all usually do after a couple of swigs any how, but he gave me that look and said "think of it as more opportunity to improve the much needed dexterity I have to offer. Pray to something that this morphine gets in you sooner than later when the time comes." I sat down on an old wooden chair, popped my clip out, and replied "from the way things are looking, your skills aren't exactly needed." "Im hoping it stays that way too." There are few holes in this brick wall. Its the only way i can tell whats going on. Never mind how long the wall will last. A hundred and two degrees outside and I'm cold as the day I took my first slap shot. I figure time itself is at an all time high value for me right now. I can hear Wesley screaming into Doc's face between the ringing and that god awful ticking. Why him at that moment? I wondered what he had felt as I shook in fear. The pain in my leg reminds me of his wasted talent.. I forgot about the ticking. While I glued myself to that brick wall, i noticed the casings all around me with peace symbols in bold black ink. This conversation has to end if I want to be a part of it. No more pictures or conclusions to draw with closed eyes for this starving artist.. What kind of sick bastard does this?