Staring blankly at a picture of a man's face on the door of the padded white enclosure of my mind isn't all that conducive to verisimilitude I've found. In real life there isn't a picture and I can't move my hands but I can't help but chase blindly at a fuller picture of this person. Any false moves and I'll color the man's hair what I want it to be deep inside; I'll project my own personality on the man even. Has my memory distorted by this point? There doesn't seem to be any better source to consult that claim than me. 

Lately I've been making a little hobby out of exhaling on the floor of this room and feeling the moisture of my breath on my cheek. It feels good to have a tactile sensation proving to me that I'm alive, well, good is a little reductive. Sometimes I'll let my head bounce on the padding and feel my brain swishing around in whatever they call that gelatin. Was that man the one that put me in here or was he me all along? It couldn't have been. Projection is a cardinal sin. That man had nothing to do with me. I don't even feel like a man; I feel, well, like a person. It's quiet in here. 

Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts radiate in another dimension out there somehow; it's why I think as though I've got an audience. There's two right ways to read that, I guess. I have a lot of free time and my mind makes an excellent echo chamber in comparison to whatever this is. I like to live out my memories as though that man were somehow in my place, thinking like he does. How different would things have been? Would I have even ended up in those situations as that man? The only way I could begin to guess is if I simulate it in my head myself. I have a lot of free time for that.