Locked Ward Moments 1971.

There’s a herd of cows in the field; they move slowly, pause, then move again, eat, pause, look around. You watch them from the window, your mind elsewhere, your thoughts pushing against each other, push and push. The hospital radio pushes out music, interrupted now and then by a voice announcing news or something boringly. You watch as one cow moves away from the others, investigates another area of grass, independently investigates. You once worked on a farm, one summer a while ago, weighing the milk on scales and writing down the quantity for each cow. Higgs moves next to you at the window, but he says nothing, he never does, just stares and stares in a deep silence. The nurses are busy, rushing about, talking to each other, one laughs. You remember her, recall her softness to touch, that evening you and she first kissed, how you held her, brought her soft body against yours. Higgs passes wind and walks away. A hawk hovers in the sky, skilled it hovers there, then dives and rips a pigeon out of the sky and flies off with it, feathers falling. It has gone. The cows move on, pause, eat grass. You walk away from the window, your right wrist bandage to cover the deep cut you made there, the music from the radio drowns on. You walk along the corridor, passing the paintings on the wall, not looking, your mind imbalanced. Soon time for medication. Tomorrow more ECTs. Anything or nothing, they do whatever they want, whatever they darn well please.