Death is a cheap coin, and you can't buy the truth here four hundred times.
There is no door at the end of the corridor. There is no way behind the door. There is only another you at the end of the road, wearing an orange prison uniform, asking you: How much do you remember this time?
Stop counting.
That voice has been waiting for you since before you were born.
Wait for an answer. Waiting for a name. Waiting for someone who can get out of the first time alive.
Or, wait for someone who dares to reach out his hand after seeing that face.
