Brandon Manner, 32 y/o

Age: 32
Diagnosis: Obsessive-compulsive disorder
Fear: Deep water

After he had been commited for the third time, he moved out here.
A little house on the side of the gravelled road.

That blue light shining into the room, in his face, on his cigarette.

He'd get postcards from his friends.
On a friday it was a picture of him and Sarah, and over her new address, "What's the outside like?".

The picture was of him and her standing outside their first apartment,
the flash had made his eyes close shut,
she'd kissed him hard on the cheek.
A moment now hanging over his bed as he slept.

Every night at eleven he'd go out for a walk.

An empty road on an empty plain, guided by streetlights.
With a couple of minutes left, he'd stop and light another cigarette.
Exactly at eleven twelve the lights go out, every night his eyes readjust to the lights of the stars.

He'd walk home, slowly dragging his feet, even though it felt like he was floating.

These twenty minutes as his whole life, waiting for everything to change.

To make the days pass he'd chop woods, in three months he'd go home again.

On a piece of paper he'd written down his epitaph:

"Death is just a minor adjustment".