She sits at a window and thinks.
They are all wrapped up the same. We are all wrapped up the same. Stamped and labelled, rewarded with chemical bliss that masks the reality of existence. Take the muscle tension, take the distraction, accept that feeling is inconvenient.
Like automatons they move through the day, playing out the actions required to maintain the illusion of normality. The insides of their mouths are black. The windows to their souls are glazed.
She knows the root cause of this. Why can’t they see it? Why deny it, if they can? Do you put your faith in Freud, or Jung, or Berne? Behind the pure white veil, do you believe in anything?
If she sits in her chair, with ten minutes to make a diagnosis, is it unreasonable of her to ask what you would like her to do? Is it unreasonable for him to take the chemical path, to move you through the door?
Do you believe in anything? Do they? Find a window with a view of the sea. Find a chair. Sit at that window, sit in that chair. Look at the sea. Let the sea draw you out to the horizon.