He's surprisingly calm, even through the madness that he must search through every day. Nothing he sees, hears or does can make him shout or scream or overreact.
He is calm.
He's vulgar and masochistic. A simple out of place thought can cause him to tumble, tumble right over the edge.
He is scared.
He is sipping is coffee, not wanting to be rude to his guest—no, his friend. It's different for him, friendship, and he's unexpectedly grateful for the man across from him.
He is happy.
He explains his fright, knowing deep inside that the man in front of him will caress his mind with a logical answer.
He is safe.
He prepares dinner, careful not to let anyone in the kitchen.
He is in control.
He is lying in his bed, fearful of his recurring nightmares.
He is tumbling.
But he knows that the man he calls doctor will catch him.