There is a slow drip. A faucet somewhere; the molecules of water falling freely, slowly into the basin. These molecules are disappearing, swirling deep into a drain.

There is fear here. It can be sensed, but not felt.

Once upon a time, chemicals misaligned. Synapses failed to fire correctly. Neurochemicals scattered. It all so medical, so succinct in these phrases. There was something broken in the brain.

All these swirling synapses, chemicals. The picture they created was broken, a frame glued haphazardly together, barely holding it's shape. It buckled with every movement, the spiderwebbed pieces always threatening to fall off and shatter.

There are new chemicals now, in the shape of ovals and round little caplets. They fix the broken, regulate the molecules and chemicals. All the miswiring - it's all being dripped away, stolen from the thing that created it in the first place.

Nothing, ever, can make everything all better again. Nothing can truly realign all these misfirings. They're throwing a pretty, soft, downy blanket over all that was once deemed ugly. The frame is trapped, shuddering in it's shining new case. It is trapped in a way never before, unable to break. The spiderwebs show, but the varnish makes them gleam like sunshine.

This frame now sits on someone's wall, ready to be paraded for the world to see. The frame makes sense now, coated in varnish and all nailed shut. It is no longer absurd, an object out of place with no meaning attributed to it's existence. It now deserves to fit in with the rest of the never-broken.

The ability to break, to be ugly on the inside, has been stolen. There is a slow drip...it's the sound of a person fading away, and no one can hear it.