Should You Go To The Dentist With A Gum Ulcer

Turro Viteo

whisper. Thin, low voice from the back, front, from anywhere. No matter where I go, I will not let go. If I
the brightly lighted passage tumbling down, still half asleep, then it penetrates between the cell bars, and sometimes one or the other staring eye. Please contact me on the back, even at work, and between the oppressed choked whisper.
We produce recycled upholstery material. For office chairs, or chairs, couch cushions. That's right, rapists and murderers had their hands already there, where today falls into your ass. What will bring it, I do not know but it I do not care. Like so much else now, too.

At half past twelve we trot down to dinner, closed, except for the huge swath that I propose. From the front and back the murmur, the rotating head as I trudge into the room and me alone on a three-foot bank, I show in front of me potatoes that look like they were after successful yesterday's power for today's high-choked again extra been.
I do not care. Before, I got down a bite, but that is past. Meanwhile, I sit just there and the blade plate into me, until nothing is there. Without smell, taste, to be filled. Still, I've grown for three pounds.

destroy Forty-five minutes later on, mix, produce. It is a miserable term, unwilling long process, but it fits. If I tear up cardboard boxes, scraps of rain, and the others flee together to a huge shadow over smoldering from a distance, without threatening. Up to this quiet, ever-present whisper. Since I am
already here. For weeks, maybe. Time blurred, once you have started here. It is vague and intangible, every day goes in the other as on the watercolor paintings of occupational therapy. There is no stopping point, it does not find it. I have for weeks with no one else spoken.

dinner, the same as every night, then employment. Three and a half hours to the confinement. Ridiculous. Some write letters, play backgammon read. And yet they never look at what they do, their eyes are on me, cling to in sticky, glibbrigen, exploded fragments. Sometimes it itches a bit. But scratch force of the skin, the stage I'm already behind me. Usually I'm sitting in my corner of the places where nobody dared to - which is where I sit - and do my stuff. Or try, at least, the glowing black augenberingte wheeling me at any time from corners and crevices and as the front headlights of a truck that has made the stalking an error.
Sometimes I clench his fist and stare a little angry bargain, and then it will be a bit quieter. But it never does disappear.
"Why be a sitting?", Then asks a sudden, and I stare in disbelief at my first script, then go up to him. A young pup, still wet behind the ears. Must be over come when I have not looked.
My arm muscles tighten, when I curl my fingers. I stare at him, a bit irritated, perhaps, a bit surprised. Openness is a freshly cleaned window. Needs fishing for words in my dry throat.
"piracy", saying I then and step the glass.
I can still see me as he turns his back, face difficulty in controlling the unpleasant surprise, I see writing, and hear his steps very thin. And at night I lie

back in my cell, growing, as always. And around me just whisper.