I lay on clinical foam on sterile paper.
The cannular in my arm stings and the bright white lights hurt my eyes.
In this room I am alone with my thoughts and my mind is noisy-chaotic.
Amongst such little stimulus distractions are overwhelming.
A certain peace is ascertained in this alien environment, the mania of my own mind is such that I have refused to allow myself any pleasure at all.
A syringe of my blood looks at me and I wonder if time has given up. Like clockwork they arrive, they take my blood and they replace it with salt. My life force my essence is encased in plastic. There is no art in this.
The passion has been drained emotionless I lay. I feel the smite, an anonymous deity.
I am a pillar of salt.
They say I am a good bleeder. They do not waste a drop.
It is raining outside, the windows do not open. All the doors are locked. I am alone.
The speculate me, my inside and out. Is nothing sacred in this place?
They enter again, “Is he your last subject?” one asks the other. A smile a nod they do not waste words.
As my skin brushes the throw away paper sheets, I glance at my plastic cup- it IS empty. I am reminded of the temporary nature of existence. I am grateful.
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