The probability for coherence is dim...
It's 2am now and sleep does not appear to be in sight. The place down the street makes coffee that is the talk of riots. Practically mud, made maddening with paper cup bureaucracy. I went to the bar, which is a ridiculous place to go when you don't drink, and order coffee all night. The pregnant girl in the corner is drinking for two, setting the mood just right for this sort of thing. They have onion soup though. I ordered it for nostalgia sake, since my dad always made me eat it. Interesting note, -the suffix algia, translates into "an intense feeling of pain". Another interesting note, is that last year for halloween my dad dressed up as "Joy and whimsy" which is reason 141 why it's hard to hate the crazy bastard.
Hospital news: Watching people die isn't as bad as you would think. It actually kind of makes you appreciate death. There isn't much you can do when you're skin is falling off and your veins are folding in; things aren't going to get better. I hope I don't live as long as some of these people, with no arms or legs. Sometimes enough of their skin is gone that you can see their bones, with lingering chunks of fat hanging off. People stop visiting you when you don't have any skin left. People don't want to smell dead flesh peeling from a loved one. People don't want to see the summation of a million moments collected in a hospital bed, gaped mouth and split eyed. Those are the sort of things people want to keep in morgues and cemeteries; in those places the visits can begin again, and people can remember who they loved, finding comfort in their death.
It's the living that kills you.
Hospital news: Watching people die isn't as bad as you would think. It actually kind of makes you appreciate death. There isn't much you can do when you're skin is falling off and your veins are folding in; things aren't going to get better. I hope I don't live as long as some of these people, with no arms or legs. Sometimes enough of their skin is gone that you can see their bones, with lingering chunks of fat hanging off. People stop visiting you when you don't have any skin left. People don't want to smell dead flesh peeling from a loved one. People don't want to see the summation of a million moments collected in a hospital bed, gaped mouth and split eyed. Those are the sort of things people want to keep in morgues and cemeteries; in those places the visits can begin again, and people can remember who they loved, finding comfort in their death.
It's the living that kills you.