The room was clean, empty of everything. Bridge stared up at the sterile walls and tried to think his own thoughts. It was hard, so very hard, with so many people so close by, all ranting and raving. In a cell nearby, he knew (from trailing his sensitive palms over the soft pads of the walls, soft as kindness so he wouldn't hurt himself throwing his body at the wall to make the voices stop) that a girl (sydny-call-me-syd) loved pink and maybe he liked pink too when colors existed and wasn't sure at all what she was doing there.
The world went quiet-dead, and Bridge smiled. Doctor Tate was the only blue in the world, the only color. Bridge thought he was in love.