In another era, the institution I was trying to get my shit together in would be called an Asylum. Now, washed of butcher quacks and the blood-thirsty lobotomies, it also lacked the anguished mad poets you see in movies and books. Instead, I mostly met sad sick people who weren't in there because they liked to recite Shakespeare in their underwear, but because something in their head was seriously wrong. Some drowned in their own drool, some deafened our ears with their nightmare screams, others had paranoia chase them down to exhaustion, and others still were captives in the clutches of depression.
Somehow among all the madness, there was a patient who stood out: A beautiful girl; too beautiful to be there, too beautiful to portray. Quiet as a mouse, graceful as a swan, and as gentle as an angel. With her rare smiles, she would spread beauty and peace like fairy dust on all of us losers. It was, in a way, a form a therapy.