Telling the truth (1)

People say they tell the truth, but I am afraid I have fallen into a hole dug by a French decomposing deconstructionista. I am afraid I am no longer believing in language. It's a frightening thing, only one step further and I no longer "know who I am" and if this were another century, another time, I would visit one of those locked wards, the kind they have in movies, where people dress in white and walk around like zombies and knock over each other's chess boards. But they don't have those any more; they not "covered". What is really scary about the "homeless" situation is that these places are gone. If you get to the end now you have to live in a cardboard box. Where do the "crazy" but high-functioning go? The Davids and Lisas of our time? The existentialists who merely want to dress in black and white poetry. Where can we go?