This room is never clean.
I am getting really sick of it.
The servants come in here on tiptoe, acting like they're trying to be respectful of my delicate condition...they stoop down and pretend to scrub things. When they leave, the layer of dust is just as thick as before, and there's an unpleasant odor lingering in their absence.
I hate my family. They're trying to drive me crazy. I am, of course, entirely sane regardless of their efforts; but I sometimes feel like that won't last for long.
After all, how anyone is expected to work in a room this filthy is beyond me.
I lost my temper and threw some stuff around. I felt better for a while after lying in a pile of broken glass. My frustration bled out of me, and I painted a picture on the wall.
The words are dripping now and there is a blank in my mind.
The scent of angel is heavy on the air. I awake, and my hand brushes his shadow.

He has left me forever.