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The Appointment

The rusty doorknob opened to a half lit room, past noon. The white-washed walls greeted me with a spray of bleach. The silent air reflected across the room, slightly penetrated by the solemn drawing of breath.

I peeked through my naive eyes into the dim cataract of a wrinkled face. After piecing the fragments of my face, a deep exhale acknowledged my presence.

A twitching finger overturned a tray of assorted pills. The floor turned into a canvas boasting of exotic colours of amnesia, lipids as well as the mediocre paracetamol. I wondered if there was a cure in this abstract caricature.

Heavy lids struggled to hold onto life. Wilted wrists were violated from every pore, slowly discharging clever concoctions that will nearly do the trick, but not quite.
I held them, the ones that made sandcastles, earned bread, supported the beloved, those frail hands craved warmth. Ironical, indeed.

"Will you pray?"

The lack of incense and imagery got me there for a second. It had been sometime since I recited a sermon.

Dusk always rattles the cages. Perhaps, it's the due date that makes us eat that cheese. Rage against the dying of the light. Sometimes, the most you can do is throw your bedpan at the setting sun.

Ah, the alarm! How convenient to be absent in repression and present at its release. A lifetime of jolts to the heart doesn't restart, love may.

A sin of the flesh or just lack of trying? Maybe if you just attended to the scars that actually needed suturing. Let me lend you some breath.

I walked over to the window and opened it. A cold gust escaped over my shoulder. I noticed the lurking melancholy in the room.

"He waited for a long time. I can only do so much. I'm glad you stopped by."

A serene sunset, I'm glad I did.

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