Doors

Hey gas mask. I want a word.

Retail therapy trumps getting drunk in some shithole and drying out a week later.

And you end up with savage new kicks. Win.

I'm looking for someone. You were in the basement at the party. May have been some mention of angels. Ringing a bell?

[Later, the post gets scribbled out with a heavy pen, though it's still somewhat readable.]

Does 'Iron Crown' mean anything to anyone out there?

A friend of Lawrence just wants to know if you're okay.

Just a 'yes' is okay, or if there's something I can do...

I'm looking for a young woman that had been hurt by several men.

There's a guy with charcoal prints out there.

Hey. I'm -

Some party, right? Yeah, I know it sounds stupid.

To the boy in the woods that I attempted to learn about pain from.

I am sorry.

[Dark, messy scrawl.]

Kid. Kid with the goddamned teddy bear. You make it through the rest okay?

[The morning after.]

Interesting evening. And by interesting, I mean disturbing.

Would it be too strange to say that I was looking for the person I shared the cloves with last night?

And what happens when we're dealing with a psychopath?

[A minute later.] I don't even mean the kind with a proclivity for cutting up puppies or anything like that. I'm talking straightforward, nonsensical crazypants, someone from a whacked-out world and absolutely zero sense of their own reality (beyond duplicities and pretty words). What. Happens. To us, to them - do we find a way to coexist, or can they be rehabilitated? Do we try? Do we bother?

Installing a pool in a desert home. Pretentious or necessary?

[Locked to Cerise S]

Cerise, darling. Where are you?

[The private courier finds Sam wherever she is, at the shop or at her home. The package is a small box, wrapped in plain brown paper, and it is addressed simply to “Samantha Alexander” with no address to speak of, or a return address to indicate the sender. Beneath the brown paper is an elegantly wrapped box, the paper thick and expensive, tied off with a ribbon to match. Inside, the contents are much darker. Copies of her admittance forms to the psych ward, court-ordered therapy documents, references to the suicide attempt. Two capped needles with a familiar substance rest on the soft cotton underneath. And tucked in with it all is a computer-printed note:

Before you start judging people about their ‘bad’ decisions and actions, perhaps you ought to take a look at your own history. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

What to do when you want to try things that no one will understand?

Seriously done with the fucking bleedover thing. If someone doesn't get this bitch back to that castle stat, I will cut someone. I'll do it. All this leaky feeling shit has me cranky, don't test me.

[In the small hours of the morning, towards three, a drawing appears across all the journals. It has been done in ink, and no name is associated with it, even when it appears on tablet or phone screens instead of paper. There is no text associated with the image; it appears to be a sleepless doodle in the book.]

( a strange, still street beneath a mountain. )

Is there a doctor in the house? Discretion required.

Does anyone know a good place to locate support groups?

This is likely the worst way to go about this, but I'm in need of some help.

I'm looking for something to help take the edge off my anxiety, but won't leave me feeling fogged up and unable to think.

Suggestions?

I'm looking to do some sightseeing.