Brenard and the Camera
an excerpt

They asked me why I did it. Psychologists, distant family members and doctors tend to not understand when you describe anything to them as 'poetic justice'. They put me on the halcyon yellows (which were absolutely wonderful when you take eight of them) and a half-slice of the bitter-blues once a day before bedtime, and ordered me to politely nod and tell words-of-order to a man-of-order who pretends to care. After Three Hundred and Sixty Three days, they took these crutches away.