I am alive, but yet I do not live. [the rest of this entry has been smeared with sweat and is illegible]
I am sick, the lack of drug is making me see things. The wallpaper writhes and swims before my eyes, and I wonder if I am truly losing it. I have lost all track of time here, the only constant is a pin hole of light from a broken board in the floor that illuminates a far corner. I am writing there now, having pulled myself from the meager pile of straw I was confined to my first many hours here.
The cramping and sickness have been unbearable, this is the first I've had the strength to move and think of writing. What a sorry state, writing on the back of this bloody wallpaper. [there is a sentence furiously scribbled out] One of the other girl's ripped it from the walls in a fit. I must not end up like that.