he couldnt see a way around it, there had been so many past dangerous, debilitating, depressing intersections with the industry, sometimes directly through its major institutions like the hospital wards, the pharmaceutical benefits scheme, the years of doctor shopping, could he crawl back again on his will and stand up to swallow the uncertainty of successful treatments however long term they become, the constant fear of little breaches of confidentiality like the more bizarre details patients confessed sexual promiscuity or stories of shocking public seizures or pleas for something to help this awful feeling or sordid details of psychic terrorism and toxic magick or genocidal ambitions or possession of nuclear weapons or plans for world domination or religious responsibilities to cannabalism... did he have the necessary abilities for coherence inside that fucking terrifying cubicle interrogation chamber busy desk hotel room smells everything perfectly sane and city suburban where thos