The dream was beautiful. He was helping the poor, the repressed, the innocent. Justice: it was happening, he was working hard, he'd do it, he'd change the world. And, the million dollars, oh the million dollars every day, just out of reach, but he'd get it.
Now, cracks started to appear. He had trouble remembering his plans, his ideas, and the people he had told them to had not written them down. His own notes didn't make sense, he had so many ideas. If only they'd written them down, if only he'd had a secretary writing down everything he had said.
A profound sadness was settling into his soul. Now, how could he achieve his goals? He knew who to blame: that medical student. The student had stabbed him in the back, said that he was not thinking straight, that he was sick. He had told the committee not about his wonderful dream, but about his mistakes. He wasn't sick! Now, the student was experimenting on him with his drugs, just to play doctor. His dream, his dream was dying.