Grey is the four unchanging walls I stare at, as little particles of dust trickle, one on another.

Grey is the silence when I try to listen, but the only thing I hear is my own breath. I focus, and I strain, trying to hear anything, anyone, but it’s like I’m panting. I must be dying, no one should have to fight so hard for breath.

Grey is the mouldy smell that creeps up on me. I think, what would smell in this godforsaken place, certainly not the food. I know now, it’s the cracked up paint and old wood of this aged grey building.

Grey is when the same people come in at twelve o’clock every day, bringing me my usual lunchtime meal of unflavoured mush.

Grey is the feeling I get when I brush my fingers over the iron bars, the cold steel making the hairs on my neck stand, it’s the 2487th day, 6th hour, and 34th minute in this asylum.