I live in a little box. It is cold in here. I patter around barefoot or sockfoot but I can’t leave. They won’t let me. The voices won’t. I hear voices. They talk to me in the middle of the night when no one is around. When I am in my little cold box they talk to me. They tell me what to do sometimes. I like the voices. Because they tell me what to do. You don’t have to think when the voices tell you what to do. Unless you think you don’t want to do it. But that would make you contrary. I don’t want to be contrary. I do what the voices tell me. Sometimes I write it down. I write down what they tell me. Sometimes I just push buttons. I like buttons. They make sense. You push a button and something happens. A door opens, a noise stops, a light turns on. Buttons make sense. I like them. I don’t see them. The voices. I see the buttons. I see them to press them. The buttons. But the voices I don’t see. They don’t have faces. They don’t have names. They have numbers instead. I like numbers. They don’t make sense. Numbers don’t. Voices make sense. Like buttons. The voices are all different. They talk to each other and they let me listen. They call each other numbers. They are nice voices. Sometimes they call me numbers too. I like numbers. They don’t make sense. I like voices too. Sometimes the voices switch numbers. Then they don’t make sense. The voices don’t. The numbers do. Then I am confused. When they switch. It is usually voices that I like to talk to that switch numbers. I think they switch so that they can talk not to me. But they are silly voices because I can still hear them. When you only know a voice by the voice the number doesn’t matter. Voices are silly. They don’t make sense. Maybe the voices are just being contrary. I don’t talk to them when they switch numbers. I don’t like contrary voices. I don’t like my box either. It is cold in here. But the voices won’t let me leave. Contrary voices. I don’t like voices.
Pienso que me vuelvo loco despacio.