Let's tell spontaneous stories.

it's a sad, lonely night;
leaves flutter in an artificial wind - you have never seen the sunlight.
This poured-concrete cell, congruent to a thousand others
is your world.
your pages have fallen to the ground again.
breathe the air. It smells of ink, and the lingering aroma of your last meal.
You no longer know if it is breakfast, lunch or dinner.
It is night, you decide; a cold, dead night
where outside - somewhere - families are bedding down their children, present and future.
Perhaps there is a place where they bed down the children past.
You hope it isn't like this room. Cold and sterile; the world a blank slate on which nothing can be written.
Because if the whole world is like this
you will go mad.
Your whole world is like this.
You are mad.
Think! Back to a time before the steel and poured artificial stone became your life.
Think, remember a world, not this, so you know that your sanity remains.
...
You cannot.
There may be food.
It nourishes you.
Perhaps you only think it nourishes you, but you do not care.
If you are to die, better that it comes quickly
or perhaps when you are unaware, dying approaches like a shadow, percolating in from the edges of your vision
a fog tinged with oblivion.
No one will remember these words, you realize even as you scratch them onto the sheaf of sheets of pieces of shit pulp cheap paper with pasty ink, not red but a simple, dead black, not even you
You are not anything but a lounger here on your simple, unyielding bed.
You are a lounge.
Perhaps this is a living room, and you are a lounge adjoining it.
But it is still grey. It is still stone. It is still steel.
Nothing has changed,
and you are still you.
The desk you write at is also made of concrete.
It is a crevice in the wall.
The only crevice, except for the one where food arrives.
That one will kill you if you crawl into it.
You tried once.
You woke up at your desk.
In front of you was a page.
It wrote about what happened when you crawled into the food crevice.
it was not in your handwriting.
Since then, you have specially stuck that one page onto the ceiling above your bed.
You do not remember sleeping.
One day, you looked down at your hands, and you realised they were writing.
The handwriting matched that of the page.
Since then, you have taken it down, and thrown it in the corner with the others.
It is a bleak, endless dark night
and no one cares.
No one will ever care.
There is no one but you
and you are mad.
Quite mad.