For the last five years, maybe longer, the only things I hear are my own raspy breathing and a constant, monotonous noise. This, and the walls of my box, are enough to push anyone over the edge of sanity. For me, it's already happened. I live in a box. Twenty feet high, twenty feet long, twenty feet wide. A perfect cube. The floor, ceiling and walls are covered with a long continuous mirror, which replicates 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 infinite cycle and infinite passages that always have a solid door. I can never escape; I've tried every day for the last five years. In my cube there is a light source, located in the top corner. This puts out an amber glow throughout my room, bouncing off the mirrors. Who knew one could be so tired of gold? Directly under the light is my bed. It's just a thin mattress covered in white sheets. There's a hole next to it 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. A movement catches my attention, which is not uncommon considering I can see myself and my environment from every possible angle. It's 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 listening to the same sound for half a decade you would learn to tune it out. No. It only makes the flame of desire to find the source more evident. Click-click-click. I feel frantic today. A little... middle of paper... teeth towards the man's eyes. Everything went black. Then he fell silent.+++Two people in lab coats stand in front of a computer monitor. They occasionally bend down to write notes on their observations. On the screen there is a box. Its only inhabitant for the past five years has been a middle-aged man. Now it flails helplessly, swinging in the air. Tears stream down his face. According to the clock on the monitor, they last two hours. Finally, he stops and appears to stare intently at the camera. He lets out a blood-curdling scream, which is abruptly cut off a few seconds later. The heart rate monitor beeps twice and makes a constant hissing sound. A straight line appears on the screen. The observers look at each other, raise their eyebrows and start writing. When they have finished, the older one looks at the younger one and speaks. “Carry on to the next topic.”