Just a poem from Sirius' point of view. I don't own, yadda yadda.
AZKABAN

Alone in the dark. -

That's how they describe it, isn't it?

Alone.

In the dark.

Alone . . . . in the . . . . dark. . .

By yourself.

Hell, how I wish I was!

Physically, perhaps, yes.

I suppose,

you could

call it that.

Yes.

I am here, with no other human presence near me.

But I am not alone.

I can hear them.

No screams.

They don't have the . . . personality, I guess, left for screams.

But whimpers.

Murmurs.

Scratchings and scrabblings.

As they tear the flesh off their bodies

Searching for an escape.

A way out.

Looking for the Universal Exit sign,

Flashing a cool green.

Eventually, though,

even the noise dies.

With their will.

Then the taste -

But shouldn't it be the smell?

That's what they always say, isn't it?

That you can smell fear.

But I can taste it.

The rank, gripping taste

Burning in my mouth;

A tar-pit of bubbling muck.

It's odd,

isn't it?

How only two of my senses are active.

How to three of them, I am truly alone.

But then, am I?

How can I tell any more?

I thought,

hoped,

that my senses, my body,

were independent of

My mind.

That faithfully,

they would record,

what was around me, without interference from my own uncertain sanity.

But is seems not.

Who, then, am I,

to tell the difference between white-washed walls and dank stone cells?

Between friendly nurse and hooded death?

I had assumed

my inner shape and soul

Would be my savior

And guide me from the treacherous paths of madness.

Obviously not.

Yet still,

I must cling to what little 'knowledge' I have,

And trust my senses,

Those that are active,

and believe the sounds and tastes that wash over me.

Even though I must not think of or concentrate on them,

In case I lose even this façade of sanity.

Solitary Confinement! Hah!

How can a man be alone with his thoughts?