For five years, maybe longer, the only things I've heard are my own raspy breathing and a constant, monotonous clicking noise. That, along with the walls of my box, are enough to send anyone over the edge of sanity. For me, this is already the case. I live in a box. Twenty feet high, twenty feet long, twenty feet wide. A perfect cube. The floor, ceiling and walls are covered in a long, continuous mirror, replicating itself and my every tiny movement. Not only that, but I feel like I'm suspended in space: mirrors reflect other mirrors, which reflect other mirrors, creating an endless cycle and infinite passages that always have a solid door. I can never escape; I've tried to do this every day for five years. In my cube, there is a light source, located in an upper corner. It causes an amber glow throughout my room, ricocheting off the mirrors. Who knew you could be so tired of gold? Directly under the light is my bed. It's just a thin mattress covered with white sheets. Next to it is a hole that I use as a toilet. My life consists of the same repetition day after day, week after week, month after month. I wake up, eat, try to escape, eat, try to escape, then listen to the subtle click-click-click until I fall asleep. Movement catches my attention, which is not uncommon given that I can see myself and my surroundings. from every possible angle. This is breakfast, consisting of a piece of stale bread and a cup of water. I devour it quickly. Click-click-click. You might think that after half a decade of hearing the same sound, you'll learn to ignore it. No. This only makes the flame of desire to find the source more prominent. Click-click-click. Today I feel frantic. One day... middle of paper ... teeth towards the man's eyes. Everything went black. Then everything went silent.+++Two people in lab coats are standing in front of a computer screen. Sometimes they bend over to note their observations. On the screen there is a frame. Its only resident for five years is a middle-aged man. Now he is struggling desperately, swinging in the air. Tears stream down his face. According to the clock on the screen, it lasts two hours. Eventually, he stops moving and appears to stare intently at the camera. He lets out a bloodcurdling scream, abruptly interrupted a few seconds later. The heart monitor beeps twice and emits a constant whining sound. A straight line appears on the screen. The observers look at each other, raise their eyebrows and start writing. When they are finished, the older one looks at the younger one and speaks. “Bring up the next topic.”