Waiting. The cloying, hot aroma of stale sweat and worn vinyl floors. Montauk knows why he is here: he is defective. The terms of his birth and the abrasions of life have sufficiently skewed his behavior enough that he is deemed an inconvenient disturbance to status quo. The figureheads on the conservatorship pull the strings and thread new needles of poison into his body each month. Maybe once the suppurating drugs have asphyxiated the last gasp of soul from him, they'll consider him sufficiently reintegrated with reality. I can't help but simply watch powerless. We have a symbiosis, two butterflies that illuminate an otherwise vacant lantern, but I'm trapped outside the bag, watching him suffocate and lose the grip on the animating essence that propelled us forward. 'You are making a 40 year mistake', Montauk pled to the council, but even with my help, we are too incommensurate as entities to be understood. Now the bag twists tighter around his neck, doomed to watch himself become like others who are medicalized. They are meat, they are nothing. They rot and fester under decades of iatrogenic abuse, and beyond being a sink pit for taxpayer money and scientific enquiry, they don't matter. Now just sit patiently and wait for oblivion.

~ Heyoka