His mind at the clockwork

I find it fun to yell at the nurses
at the eighth year.
They sent me to this place, for I know things
they don’t. Der Zeit. That moving entity without
consciousness. I’d spend nights on the bed,
strapped, ruminating on how
a real psycho feels. Does he ever
smell the stress of coming death? Would he notice
the broken clock on the wall? Shouldn’t oranges be
supplied to every lunatic? And how does he
spend his sleepless nights? If he dares to
think over these questions, he’d probably see
that looming entity, a grinding emptiness,
approaching shadows in the corridor, grim gaslight
projected on the floor, rusty nails
inside the wall. I grimaced at a passer-by.
His eyes filled with confusion or sorrow, maybe both.
The kind of emotion the psychos wouldn’t have. Hast du
kinder? How many strapped-thinking nights have you
endured, to hold that much tear? How many oranges should
one eat, to get himself mad? Why the broken clock
started to move again, in the sleepless night?
I thought those were the questions
worth asking. I opened my mouth, but the words were
slipping away. I yelled.