Am I sitting in the waiting room of the health clinic or
waiting in the sitting room? Either way, I suppose, it make no significant
difference. I’m sitting / waiting patiently (to be a patient) as a toxin,
injected yesterday into my arm, is tracing its way up my veins, like an
inflamed red highway line on the roadmap of my skin.
Skin covered in dirt and steel dust. Skin scaly and scarred. I am not a man, but a creature. A beast. Defigured. Disformed. Tramping through the room on heavy clod hooves instead of feet.
Check the lights and cables. Count the lugs and ladders. I am misassembled.
The multiples will cross eventually - intersect, meet, collide – but, for now, I am out of tape. I am waiting / sitting for the unfamiliar doctor.
150 years ago I would have died. 50 years ago I might have died. But not today. Tap. Click Huzzah. We are nonchalant.
Skin covered in dirt and steel dust. Skin scaly and scarred. I am not a man, but a creature. A beast. Defigured. Disformed. Tramping through the room on heavy clod hooves instead of feet.
Check the lights and cables. Count the lugs and ladders. I am misassembled.
The multiples will cross eventually - intersect, meet, collide – but, for now, I am out of tape. I am waiting / sitting for the unfamiliar doctor.
150 years ago I would have died. 50 years ago I might have died. But not today. Tap. Click Huzzah. We are nonchalant.
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