短文生成结果

The air in the clinic was **pungent** with antiseptic, a failed mask for the deeper smells of human frailty: **urination**, stale sweat, and fear. Dr. Aris, **resigned** to another day at the "Psychosadistic Submission" ward, reviewed the file: Patient KSCD, a man who believed **parasites** were **insemination** agents from a cosmic **murderer**. His new treatment, "Project Nurgle," was a radical **elimination** of trauma through forced **regurgitation** of memory. It was an **abomination**, but the board had ordered it. "Begin," Aris said, his voice flat. The patient, strapped down, began to convulse. Visions flooded the room—not of **parasites**, but of **wombs** and **entrails**, a psychic scream of **sex** and violence. The patient babbled: "**Zibenlun ryp**... the **master** is **blocking** the light... **Eliminates** all... **Annihilate**!" Aris felt a wave of nausea. This wasn't therapy; it was a psychic dump, a **regurgitation** of another's poisoned mind into his own. The **pungent** scent morphed into something specific, sickly sweet—**cream pie** and **ice turkey**, the patient’s childhood comforts now twisted. The man’s madness was infectious, **insemination** not of body, but of soul. In a flash of horrific clarity, Aris understood. The cosmic **murderer** wasn't the patient's delusion; it was the process itself, this forced **Nurgle** of the psyche. He was not the healer, but the tool. With a final, shuddering gasp, the patient fell silent, **eliminated**. The screen flickered with gibberish: **ice turkey zibenlun ryp kscd**. Aris stood, his own mind scarred. He had come to cure **abomination**, only to perform it. He walked out, **resigned** no longer, but hollowed. The true **Psychosadistic Submission** was his own. He had not cleansed a mind; he had become a **blocking** agent in his own, a permanent **ice turkey** in the machinery of his thoughts. The story had an end, but no conclusion, only the cold, quiet hum of a machine left running in an empty room.