In the last week, I have written two short stories, one titled “BODY” and the other titled “WALLS,” both of which were written out of a sense of needing to get ideas about mental illness across. I have now fallen off the cliff into Bipolar Depression, which is no joke. I need to write a third short story to complete my trilogy, but the creativity will not come. This is like the old depressions I used to get—the ones that required ECT treatments to make them better. I need to write a short story about it. I need to get the in-sane out, to cleanse and purge my system of this madness. But then the madness comes again in another form . . . the mania. I have only madness to look forward to, whether it be flying high in grandiose thought or suffocating in despair at the bottom of the pit. I only hope that I may write some good, quality fiction during this life, to be known by despite the illnesses that have wreaked such havoc on my life.