The black-and-white paintings that hung on all the walls, or two on each wall, were slightly nervous. She felt that she was being printed, that she was too much in her memory, and she felt it was huned. But it could just be nervousness. She was supposed to be safe here, right? It wasn't very cozy. He had never been in a psychological surgery before, so he was looking for words to begin.
Her friend counseled her that it might help her to fight some things and put them in order. But now that she was sitting in this room, which her mind was rather turbulent than she had calaged, she didn't give her much truth. The therapist had come in a few minutes by the door–other than that she had been sent to the room by her assistant herself. Probably because of anonymity.