Edvard Munch's The Scream sits on the assembled faces.
Some remote distant comprehension on the blank stares.
Oh it is recreation time.
Closing eyes stare at the singer who is accompanied by his sound system.
As he sings irrelevant 50s hits.
Oh how did I land on this island of the damned?
How do I get off Alcatraz?
Repetition is the popular language here.
Arthur tells me,"Y ou'll get through this,
"You are a survivor".
I want to believe.
I look up at the crystal chandeliers and their vulgarity assaults me.
I smile at one of the frozen faced screamers attached to an oxygen line.
Acknowledged she looks happy a moment.
This can't be true,but it is
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