The guitarist on Oxford Street makes me sad. He plays by a dark wall notes like insects on a river. The christmas lights are already up. Switched off they are more beautiful like gathering moons. 

I didn’t speak a word in class. We had read Dorian Grey, I only read half. The exhaustive toil of home only made me read half. Not real home- the compound for the blind embossed with mental illnesses unbound that I reside in. I thought of things the others said and thought I maybe understand for once. 

I had cried in an empty purple common room. No one will help me get a woman with dementia moved and now they move the loudest woman next door in what was a guest flat. I am ill from a decade of no sleep because of mentally ill people. Soon I’ll join them. This is how I spend my last years before blindness. 

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