He knows they are keeping him safe here.
His walls are white. Nothing on them. He likes them that way. He has vague memories of being in rooms with cluttered walls. Messy bric-a-brac signifying nothing. There is no visible pollution in his place. Just a beautiful whiteness surrounding him, keeping him safe. Allowing him to dwell on what is truly significant. In this place, what he sees and what he hears is safe. Here he has only significant sounds. Those that burgeon with meaning. None of those he has left behind. He has never been disturbed by traffic sounds. There has been no honking or squealing tyres or revving engines. He has no idea where his room is, within the building. He cannot remember the start of it. He may have been sedated the day they brought him in.
His head turns slightly to better his listening. He can hear them now; those significant noises. Sounds that would mean nothing to many. The rhythms of footfall. The feet that pass, just beyond his door. Sometimes clicking, sometimes thudding. The steps of men and women. Different sounds, different shoes. He knows them all. He also knows that with the sounds, and with the moments that pass, there is a great renewal of things, with everything changing with each moment. He loves the sounds; they are of great comfort to him.
He knows that these things would not be noticed, would have no significance for those who dwell on the outside. Such things would be considered mundane and without meaning to them. They would be irrelevant and unnoticed within their realms of random cacophony. It is a manmade complex and busy world, created by those who live in it. Those who have been conditioned since birth to accept, to ignore, and to allow the corruption of it all. He knows he no longer has to tolerate the incessant contamination that runs riot in that other place.
He knows they are keeping him safe here.