One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Psychedelic sixties. God knows that whatever that means it certainly meant far more than drugs, though drugs still work as a pretty good handle to the phenomena.
I grabbed that handle. Legally, too, I might add. Almost patriotically, in fact. Early psychedelic sixties…
Eight o’clock every Tuesday morning I showed up at the vets’ hospital in Menlo Park, ready to roll. The doctor deposited me in a little room on his ward, dealt me a couple of pills or a shot or a little glass of bitter juice, then locked the door. He checked back every forty minutes to see if I was still alive, took some tests, asked some questions, left again. The rest of the time I spent studying the inside of my forehead, or looking out the one little window in the door. It was six inches wide and eight inches high, and it had heavy chicken wire inside the glass.
You get your visions through whatever gate you’re granted.