Along these streets, these confused alleys suffering a forced intercourse of asphalt and blood and sweat and tears; along these streets the children can be heard crying from the windows, their heads tilted back in starved sorrow as the night glares down at them with the contempt of a hanged mother.  But the broken necked angels whose best intentions led to malicious outcomes as the will never know the scorn of the eve, the cries of the children or the gravestone faces of a world gone cold with anticipation of what would truly be an easy euthanasia.
I walk around each night observing these things, not as a profession, but more as a hobby. I see all of this shame and pain and fear with a scrutinizing eye, an eye that offers no sympathy but understands fully the path that the roads lead us to. This town is an egg. It holds you in so tightly and warm, safe from the world outside, where you can either stay until it lets you free, or escape and burn in the searing reality that lies below it. The real world will scar you, son; don't forget.
As the skies turn even darker still and the light of both moon and star is drowned out by hovering pools of absolute blackness, I am reminded of my condition. I am reminded of the clarity of my vision, how I can see this place for what it is. A padded room, walls stuffed with stiff sponge, bedlam fools begging for a piece of mind and never finding it in their tight white coats. The voices in their heads are the last words of broken necked angels, I love you, son; don't forget. But it is the memory that begs forgetting.
Each Ophelia in this place begs a return or a new start. Every one of these Willies craves love and needs to be well-liked. Nobody knows that they're real though, nobody cares that they're still alive, still human and still waiting for the sun to shine, just like everybody else. All they can see is a medicated smile, a personality in a repressed state of seizure, and a body that grinds rusty gears to twitch and fall and die.
Soon I will be as peas and carrots. Eyes cut wide and brain spooned to death. It's a feast for the scientific mind, a scheme to make the ever anxious conspirator's heart slow and become still. My antic disposition and ill-wit breeds the urge to seduce me with lightning, and the will and unjust justification by which to reduce my humanity and slay the mind that birthed so many a helpful tools, so many ideas that in application have assisted. But the memory begs forgetting, and as a memory myself, I beg that they remember to forget me before my own memory swallows itself in grief and in suffering and –heaven forbid- thought.