He walks down the hall, one foot lifting higher than the other, and enters the door on his right. He finds himself a chair and puts his books down in front of it. As mangled as they are, he exposes them to no one. He would always tell anyone who inquired they are, "Simply tired."

All through class his life is relived; debts unpaid, responsibilities ignored. He sits, wondering, having his priorities, his normalities rearraged so that the world around him doesn't change theirs. Conformity. Even as he tries to leave, he's held back by the leash saying, "Change, do things my way".

Intelligent as he is, he finds compromise. He sells his grade for some peace of mind. Neandering down the hall, limping in his mind, he's thrown into walls, interrogated, denied privacy.

He sits and ponders. Wondering and calculating his surroundings and their incompetence, their insanity.

He asks himself aloud, "How can their perceptions and understandings be so spectrally opposite? How can they see what I see, understand it, and ignore it?"

Maybe he doesn't see it himself; maybe he is incapable of looking in a mirror and seeing the truth for himself; that really, truthfully it is he who is insane, it is he who sees what he sees, understands it, and ignores it. Who will be the one to bail him out of his self-imposed misery?

He suddenly throws his books, his misshapen, crying, near destroyed books and throws them at peoples' faces, and in a fit of rage yells out, "Maybe now you'll understand!"