The vile monotony of school snags the wrinkles in my brain with its dull talons. Like an expensive rug in a small food processor, the well-lit hallways slowly unravel what reasonable thoughts (and mathematics skills) I have, and burn them in an industrial incinerator for fuel. The spidery Mr.Turks' voice pounds through my ears hours and hours after I leave his prescence. A speech from Mr.Raddin, repeated for the fourth time this day, bounces around inside my ribcage and makes my legs weary of sitting risers. Mrs.Durio's ultimately pointless lectures corrode the ivory walls of logic in my mind, making them dank, algae-infested concrete prisons. Mrs.Jenkins asks me what we're trying to find for a system of equations over and over. I open my mouth, and a shriek longs to take the oppurtunity and escape.

Finally, at district rehearsal, despair turns into hysteria. I draw little stick figures with pointy Chinese hats on them, lunging at each dotted quarter note in Frolocket ihr Völker auf Erder with great pointy teeth and maniacal grins. I eat part of page eleven. My soft, witty psycho-altering drug is absent, thus being unavailable to maintain my stability. The choir room goes black, and fades into a frozen frame like a detective story drawn in ink by Bill Waterson. This is the distilled form of what madness is for me.

Which, I suppose, isn't half bad compared to what some poor saps go through.