It was a tiresome tip-tapping of that incessant rainfall that drove me to the madness – not the sentence, nor the torture. No, reader, it was the tapping. Whence one is the victim of such painful and beleaguered, endless drumming of such an indefinite pitch, there’s no reason, no logic… there’s nothing – nothing but that tapping. I say, reader, that sound will tear whatever fabrics of sanity you may have. I found myself not bound by the shackles, nor the chains, nor the constables. I was bound by myself. There was naught but the focus on the rhythm, then the whispers, then the demands.
There lies betwixt the downbeat of each tip-tapping, a voice. It comes to us in that hereafter silence – a fleeting moment, bygone at the moment of its arrival. Thus it holds an effect; an influence thus imprisoning the mind within the walls of madness. I tell you, reader, whence it was that I saw their lips, flip-flapping that damnable sentence upon my damnable soul, I’d left myself there in that tribunal.