Intro to madness

I can't scream, and I shut my mouth with a fastener looped around the gap in my front teeth. My foot long arms want to flap like nailed wings to prove they can move, but I'm sitting in front of these two, arms rigid beside me and I slip into something like a black sea, a chilling core of panic. He moves to watch me, eyes kindling interest with a wryness about his mouth, and his face containing a likeness of chilled slate. The other man is absorbed with the birth of our creativity, our strewn childbirthing on the white-washed board, and he draws his fingers through it like it was detritus - a rubble of hip bones and bloody fingernails. Like an apocethary he mixes our labours and degusts them, paying attention to the nick of sinew catching between his teeth and the ear wax which runs from his ear down his neck. He is a connoisseur for the mad. The other man laughs with glee and points his body at the mess of finger and bone. The light of his mania plays like a darkened cinema, like a schizophrenia of light. The scene spins. Slowly at first, then with a dizzying and blinding brightness. The coruscations move me, and I fit. I spit out my tongue and writhe to the rhythm of his kaleidoscope. Outside of me I hear myself singing of loneliness and heartache, and I hear forlorn voices joining me. We hang in a discordant etherworld of music and we hurt and we cry. And I am alone.