He would get a cup of coffee from hospital because it cost him less money. While most spent time sitting in lines, he sat in waiting room chairs watching people in the form they never wished to be seen in. A building impeccably clean has never felt so dirty. The halls reek of death, and the ones alive who walk within them can’t wait to get the fuck out. Cheap thrift shop art, that can hardly be considered such, hangs along the walls. A small section of this building is coated in paint in the most abstract setting. Kids are allowed to paint on thus wall, and most of it looks as if they dipped their dying hands in buckets of grief and smacked it onto the face of their oppressor.
The coffee is good to me since I’ve been drinking it for so long, and there’s something beautiful about being in the same room as death and getting to know him on a more personal level. The sound of a ticking clock is deafening. The bomb of death is always one click after the one we hear, and we’re all teetering if the edge of nothingness wear watches. The sound sticking clock is like waiting for a time bomb to explode. Each wasted moment is one click further to death..the sound of a tocking time bomb is more comforting. At least I know death is coming. A wrist watch is death himself holding your hand throughout the day the way a boy scout walks old ladies through a street.

How many should have been forgotten, and how many of them wander the planes of the in between possessing bodies just to be remembered?