The sanctuary's garden was virtual.
You sat in a stone chair and a holograph displayed.
Fifteen minutes absolute.
The rigidy of the stone was necessary
to keep your torso in movement.
Music was incidental Celine.
Peripherally, the waiting lines of escapists
were visible if you strained, which was not suggested.
You could see one of the eyes of each.
Eventually grayness framed the façade
and concentration payed off
in the form of pristine images.
Hobit shacks and festering brooks.
A button could be pressed on the chair's crotch.
A drawer delivered tepid tap water.
Humming was allowed.
When the 'ONE MINUTE TO NORMALITY' warning
sounded, it was best to prepare by twisting your head from
side to side and stretching arms and legs
in the opposite direction of which they were intended.
Celine's lovely euphony decreased to a barely audible whisper
and an escalator path caused the floor to move toward
a welcoming door. As soon as you consented you were replaced.