Doors

[During this in Turnberry Place.]

Hey, so is someone being murdered across the hall or what? Anybody else in my building want to take bets?

After this cluster"duck" and some experimentation with locking, as "Daniel W," but in a handwriting that is thin-lined and held together as if the pen is never lifted from paper: [Locked to Sam A]

Fuck me. Fucking really?

As Lin A, ETA: [Locked to Joey A]
Sam would like me to check and see if you're "alive."

( Locked to Louis D )

Criminals after criminals, what will we do unless the law is firmer and vigorously upheld? A man in a hood, with bow and arrows? That's barely metaphor.

There is a concrete wall in front of me, with an arrow pointing the direction. All my life I've followed the arrow, obeyed the directive that this way was out. But what if the arrow is a lie and the only way out is through the wall, behind the bold black letters that declare EXIT?

Is this what madness feels like?