The Psychologist

 Dark rooms painted in deep reds hide horrors beheld by eyes who have faced worlds

we have not yet dreamed. Hands have clenched dark leather chairs, afraid to let go lest their fears beset them as a man with a cold stare hangs on to his every word. What do we treat? Is it the mind, or the spirit? Are our tools of this world or the next? Inside our mind lies dormant truths we will never fully comprehend, places we may never see, and voices that are not our own. And beyond this? Beyond this cold room, where a man leans back in his chair and sighs to himself as if to release the weight of a thousand souls who have entered his chambers and left even more confused.