I heard ruckus in the upper halls today. Judging by the sound of the stampede I’d say some sort of riot. Jack found it a good turn on, as I could hear him slamming his pelvis to the wall shouting his usual perversions and obscenities, laughing his ass off. The man oozes crazy; even the rats stay out of his cell. But through our conversations I can’t help but believe him to be, well, though clearly insane he seems to be quite aware. Jack’s a clever bastard, but he’ll have none of my ideas – only his own nonsense ramblings he seems to fancy. I thought him to perhaps have potential, but Torture Rack keeps to his own chaotic sense of intuition. He is unreliable, and not to be counted on. Or trusted.

Finding connections has been hard. No one talks here, only in maddened whispers and cries. Jack seems to be the exception, talking to whoever will listen. And considering Jack’s best friend is Jack, I can’t think of any reason the man would ever shut it. However sometimes, on the rare moment the Hole slinks into quiet, I can pick up things, if I happening to push my ear to the right wall at the right time. I still have next to nothing.

My dreams have become wet. I’m not sure what this means, other than I’m a horny shit-sack. This is sadly literal since I stopped caring of my shit and piss. The Clinkers only come when they can no longer stand the smell. The routine is pretty tight, I’ve seen no opportunity there. Weakened as I am it would only result in an unnecessary beating. This is my advantage, admitting my disadvantages. Having been locked up before means nothing except understanding to recognize my disadvantages. Fools are brash because in being brash they have been branded as fools. I lie in wait.

With an ever watchful eye.

Rov