Lost, deep and far, inside his mind, the patient sits cross-legged upon the floor. There is a mattress for him along the wall, but he seems to prefer this spot in the center of his cell. His eyes, dreamy and half-closed, gaze eternally at the locked door. Now and again, we force food into him, a violence no less marring one’s soul for his utterly willful failure to resist. If he knows anything of what happens to him, he accepts it, and when it is done, he finds his place again upon the floor and waits, dreaming before the door.
Alright, I let Grok draw the image, but I thought our a.i. boy did a good job
Tale Told 