Dobyns

For years he thought madness must be peaceful-a positive letting
go—and he looked forward to a time when he would no longer
need to hold on like a man hanging from a high branch. He even
thought it would restful, as if madness were an interior spa
where he could reclaim himself before rejoining the daily agitation.
As a result, he hadn’t expected the noise, the discord, like a radio
stuck between stations, a multitude of voices, each with advice, en-
treaties, commands, but hardly audible, just noise, static, no way
to bring it to a halt, and vexing him even as he slept. Now he knew
that if he found his way back, he would work harder, be reliable.
Such were his promises, but the choice was no longer his to make.
It had become confused with the tumult, the racket, like a motor
rushing out of control, pistons rattling, metal fracturing, gobs of
oil flung off.