Painted Tape

Or taped paint? She doesn't like to go out, and so I've adapted. My hermit tendencies once again seeping through. I'm hesitant to get out of this room. I've used the toilet, and now I've closed the door again. I like it better when they think I'm sleeping, even though I'm not. Collecting data, I am constantly... I've written a lot of bits and pieces for fiction and non-fictional writing, but I haven't an adequate notebook to put it in. I wish I'd brought my laptop, after all.
I cannot feel the art, I feel like I am in her hole. A dark hole, of fear and self consciousness. And I thought that I would never experience something like it again the last time, wrong. But they like it. They like their crevice. It's familiar.