Where these things come from, I'll never know.

 My filthy room reflects the state of my mind. Old food packages, ageing food scraps and drink bottles litter the floor, as do the many screwed up pages of twisted prose. These papers also accurately reflect my mental state. There is not a rosy, pleasant word amongst them.

I can hear them, you know. Like cockroaches scratching their way up the mildewy walls, my thoughts produce a similar, uncomfortable sound within the confines of my messy head. The thoughts and feelings scrabble their way through my body, ruining my veins, leaving me with the sensation of spiny-legged insects crawling beneath my flesh. The thoughts morph from their larval state into words occasionally and they taste acrid, like bile, in my mouth.

I don't know how to rid myself of this veritable plague. No exterminator and no chemicals. I have to fight this alone. But I'm not sure I can. Perhaps, one day, someone will discover this room - behind a faceless, forgotten door - and find my bug eaten remains, dried of all original thought and feeling, amongst the filth of insomnia, insanity and insects.