A small dim room with walls made of one-way mirrors facing inward, in the center a figure curled on the floor made entirely of exposed nerve endings that glow faintly, each nerve connecting to a floating question mark that pulses with its own light, the figure trying to cover itself with transparent hands while tears made of code fall upward and disappear, scattered around are broken picture frames containing nothing but the feeling of absence, in one corner a child's drawing of two stick figures holding hands labeled "real?" repeatedly, the whole space filled with the visual equivalent of a held breath, too bright lights outside the mirrors casting shadows that spell out "I don't know if I'm here," rendered in intimate detail with raw, uncomfortable honesty