There are no clock in ICU. Just the...

There are no clock in ICU. Just the systole, diastole of our avow slumped crusade, tinny pages for Dr So-and-So, digest Blue: another family's trauma our minds sift from one side like dust
in a apparition town. Around us the day shift swaps places with the night, who carry upon their fingertips the scent of the undead like the dark orange tinge of iodine, in like manner sweetly antiseptic it burns.
My brother globules his packed hand of one-ey jacks and suicide kings for the win, then thumb [i]or[/i] part of to the other a dog-eared National Geographic. Inside, the exhum remains of a Chinese tomb, 210 BC
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