The clock is ticking, second by second.
He is met his new therapist. Eyes of therapist are grey, as grey as cold water of the Baltic, he has wrinkes around his mouth, pressed in tight line when he glances briefly that boy, seated next to him. The boy stares out of the window, eyes deep in his skull, clouded with worries and tiredness.

The clock is still ticking, neverendedly ticking, and how, oh how that boy wishes the time would stop, and he could just be. Without toughts, without responsibilites and whatnots. The clock is tickling.
 

"We have been discussed with your parents about your situation, and we agreed that we should get you into psychiatric ward on the countryside, you know, you would get time to think and - " time, more time, and the time was that only one thing, what adressed boy never wanted more. He was afraid.

Welcome to the nut house, was scraped on the wooden door.
Everyone thinks we're out our minds. Was scraped in smaller, curvier handwriting.