Smoking again. Only three all day though. Jogging up and down the corridors. Boredom setting in. Two teenagers admitted in the evening, having come from other hospitals. Both voice-hearers. I'll be giving them some advice. I'd love it if I could save them a bit of the grief I've endured. I consider myself a guru on voice-to-skull transmissions (V2K). My best advice is to either tell the voices to f**k off, or, even better, just completely ignore them (which at times can be compared to ignoring a lynch mob). The trick is to thoroughly eliminate the perpetrators from your consciousness. I know I can be a help to teenagers going through this malevolent crime. Me, I go for pure ignorance. No talk back. You see people in the street having loud conversations to themselves. That's voices, that, it's obvious when you've been there. The voices love to control people's behaviour. That’s their main objective. They must have great fun with some people. I absorb all their abuse in, like a sponge, and then take it with a pinch of salt. It's your own imagination that gets the better of you, in the end: You succumb to your own fear. They capitalise on your most intimate fears and roll them like a giant snowball downhill, adding more and more you never knew you had. Ash, the naked fitter who trashed my late father’s heirloom snooker cue, has now normalised. He was talking about investments earlier while listening to the radio through the television. A lot of so-called schizo-patients have a gifted skill about them. I should have a decent kip tonight because I just had a sleeper tablet (Zopiclone, or zoppies as they are known). Doctor said they only prescribe them for two weeks at a time. Someone else told me they’d been on them for eight years. Last two nights I’ve been waking up every two hours with the usual controlled dreams. Time to train my abs tomorrow. Calves I can do in the shower, and sit-ups I can do on the edge of my bed.