Second paragraph of third chapter:
I had been walking, as was my habit, without purpose along the Portway. In a melancholic state, vision turned inwards, I felt as if I drifted in this manner most mornings. Looking for what, I could not recall. I wandered alone, my hands firmly plunged into my pockets, my fingers twitching rhythmically in forgotten arrangements, remembering the ghostly movements of some old functionality long since dissolved. What was it I had used to do, before I had begun to walk here every day? What had I used my hands for? (Mummy, can you pick me up? I can’t see!). I could never remember. My shoulders hunched against the chill. Every now and then, I managed to drag my eyes away from the beautiful bridge that hung above me, a bridge I stared at without really seeing, trying and failing to block out its insistent, persuasive calls. I would look away, struggling to reconnect my feet and my body to the ground beneath me, but my gaze always drifted back. The bridge was magnetic.
Protagonist is being treated for profound psychiatric problems by dodgy contemporary British academics with an agenda and a dream machine. It all goes horribly wrong. Author makes it clear from the foreword that it’s partly based on personal experience of psychiatric treatment. It comes from the heart, but I’m afraid I found the writing very clunky, especially at the start; it improved a bit as it went on. You can get it here.