Stream of consciousness.

I climbed into her toy chest, but why? More importantly, whose Little Brother sat atop that wooden crate? I didn't scream though, did I? Was it possible that I found comfort there, then, at that tender age where children are unaware of how the grim things that they sometimes do, can qualify as morbid and Wrong in some way? I still seek dark, silent places. I used to make difficult phone calls from the built-in wardrobe in the bedroom of my parent's house. My two Best Friends and I, not-so-early-teened, sat inside a cardboard fridge box. Was it a lame thing to do? Somebody's brother intevened then, too- kicked on the box. We screamed, feigning pain. Surpressing mirth. I found myself trapped in a phone booth several years later, with one of those Best Friends barring the exit. Bottle of Something in hand, she sneered at me- why, though? Intoxication absorbs essential details, yet again. Yet these images remain for me to play, to make new truths with. Or was it Fever that burned at my mind that particular night? Delirium can make me feel far drunker than alcohol. Two years back I became lost in a hospital ward, because my legs wouldn't go where I needed them to and I regained "consciousness" halfway through a shouting match with a girl about my age who was heavily pregnant. I hid in a disabled toilet for forty minutes with the lights out.