I've got to get out of here

Those melodies are hauntingly familiar.

But months pass, and Jimmy remains in the forgotten hangar. He has taken to sweeping and doing repairs on a small chapel under hazy blues, praying alone to a crystalline Madonna each day as the sun machine comes to its perfect noon. The guards, the patients, the harvesters: these do not exist for him, only the sublime light refracted.

During their sessions, Dr. B. speaks to him of the Perfected Man, above and below, aware of all his positions occurring simultaneously. At times there is a certain madness to the insights that come from these sessions, a haunting feeling that Jimmy cannot shake off, a feeling he could normally attribute to his medications but B. has kept his patient off anything but bread and water for all this time.

The last morning comes, and Jimmy awakens to the sight of snow out his cell window, perfect and crisp as far as he can see. The whiteness seems to have completely changed the appearance of the world.

Disoriented, he looks over his shoulder to see the cell door is ajar, the words "the Gate is Open" painted over it in black. Without thinking, he stands up, pulls on the shoes and coat waiting for him, presses the door wide open.

Light from above, and the bright white all around him, are temporarily blinding, but as his vision clears, Jimmy finds he is no longer in the facility. The expected long corridor has been replaced by lightly wooded grounds, behind him the heavy door of the Church of the Immaculate Conception . . .