At Heretics, Lovers, And Madmen, HLR breaths dis-eased air.
The air in doctor’s waiting rooms is green.
You can see it, if you look around properly.
The air is shamrock green and hangs heavy with plague.
You feel it on your skin, the bacteria, crawling. You breathe in disease.
The door handles, the plastic seats, the anti-bacterial hand gel dispenser: riddled.
A man’s cough makes you wince. Even the receptionist is sniffling.
Look at all these people whose bodies don’t work properly.
We are so far from perfection. Old age is catching. Dying is contagious.
You sit, silently judging the young mothers who seemingly bring their children here to play, watching the tiny hands of tiny humans pushing beads around on the old wooden abacus that stands in the centre of the room, wondering if any of these people even have an appointment or if they’re just here to gossip in their native tongue, in the warm, in the…
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