I go to the sanatorium once a year, although I wish I could go there more often. Many would be surprised at how things are in here, but for me it’s obvious what such a visit entails. Most of the procedures performed render me completely immobile, and as I take my afternoon breaks in the garden, I can only inhale sweet, gravid air, slowly brewed among clumps and bushes in the lustrous sunshine. Needless to say, things that are being done to me are hurtful, but when I leave the architectural carcass of the sanatorium I feel relieved, I feel that the burden has been lifted, and I am renewed. Strangers see my solemn countenance and sing the dirge of gloom, not knowing the image of true tranquillity and serene oblivion. Though not one of them can be blamed for this rudimentary judgement, for they know no better and can not be expected to reach this point of realisation.