PTST

the slim man, between truth, and deception, between reality, and tender fantasy, coldly sips his strong coffee, pulls his greasy hair behind his abnormally large ears, and gives very little care, for life is hardly ever worth, losing your cup of coffee.
he sits on his movable chair, his gray bleak chair in his gray bleak apartment, and quietly , anxiously stairs at the black and white footage within his palms, he turns around him, paranoid, runs to the pallor old curtains and shuns the sun out, and the unwanted unseen glances.
he gets off of the chair and crawls under the table, he pulls the footage with him, along with the book hes been difficultly reading, researching, desperately looking for a piece of harsh information to explain the terror he`s been in, some sort of medical explanation, rare scientific research, anything.
he pants as he reads words, slightly sheltered beneath his old mahogany disk table, and struggles to understand their otherwise simplistic meaning.
"schizophrenics experience delusions with constant sound of what they refer to as'whispers'" he pants some more, and takes a few seconds to self diagnose, "ahh, no..no I dont hear whispers, but but, but time, I cant tell time, I I never can one day its Saturday afternoon, and then its Monday evening, and I dont know if its October or November, I ..I" and he breaths in deeper, and clings to his coffee mug, afraid, terrified that they`ll come back, all of them, him, and him, and her and him, and the little girl with her dog whose never quite
and they said, they said, they`ve chosen him, on on some sort of mission, he thinks, recalls, abseloutly terrified, holring his head between his fingers, he sips his coffee to calm him self down, he spills a few drops on his shirt and the terror within him overshadows any sort of physical pain towards the immense heat of the coffee touching his skin, he reaches for the phone and dials the number...
"nayome, common  nayome goddam answer the phone" he whispers shivering \ underneath the table "hello" the silky voice of the independent blond rises "nayome, nayome, you gotta help me, naymoe they`re coming for me , please!" "noah, is that you? have you been drinking again?" "no nayome there were these people who came over, and I dont know what they did to me, I am so terrified  , I cant, tell what time, date is is, is it november, is 99?  1998, I dont, I dont know what they did to me naymoe" he says beginning  to weep,  squashed under the tole of the events.
"noah, calm down, I ll be there in a second".
the thin man wakes up, its the middle of the night, what night? what day, he dosenot begin to know.
life is hardly worth losing your cup of coffee.





author note:
as it says on the labes, this was inspierd by a movie, you wouldnt even guess, but it`s the ring.

 there is something about the atmosphere of this movie that inspierd me, I realize that its not exactly the most, artistic movie or whatever, but not to blow my own horn, I am not even sure if its a complement, but I sorta see shit in movies that most people dont, its probably not even meant to look like that,