The wall is still there.

You could sit and wait and even when the universe dies the wall would still be there, flat and white and blank and solid. The wall is still there and the door on it is a painting. If you reach for the handle you'll realize that it's an illusion. Choice doesn't exist. You've always lived inside the lines someone else drew for you. And no matter how you scratch and wipe at those lines they will last forever, etched in the marrow of your bones, because if you cross them, they'll shrink, and shrink, and shrink, shrink until there's nothing left.

The wall is still there and the door on it is a painting and the windows are covered with black cloth. The light that comes in is hardly enough to see by. Just enough to tell you you're still alive somewhere. Just not in here. Outside the window maybe there's noise. A song you liked once, a voice that doesn't hurt your ears. Or the sound of a plate bursting against the floor.

The wall is still there and the door on it is a painting and the windows are covered with black cloth and the bed has no blanket. You can curl up in it but you'll be cold and when you sleep, you'll feel numb for a while and when you wake the feeling will remain. Some half of you likes the numbness, it's gentler than the pain and it's softer but the rest of you hates it because numbness is deadness and you still haven't broken the wall.

The wall is still there and the door on it is a painting and the windows are covered with black cloth and the bed has no blanket and you're the only one in here.

And no one knows.