The black room has come back to me. It has stood strong, resisting the sunshine attacks of the outside world. All the days that I document, on the bright mental calendar or in exasperated word documents somewhere, are all rolling into one.

The blue and white checkered bed-sheet is pulled up all the way to my chin and the thought bubbles spew out of me, out of my ears in a hot, fiery mess. In the darkness, the black room glows green. It moves in and out, pulsating, until I shut my eyes and will it to stop.

The days are here again, when I find myself hiding somewhere in the depths of my bed. In the mornings when the alarm rings, I cringe like I have been stung.