Mick grew drowsy as he waited. The clinic waiting room was directly responsible for this. The walls were painted in two tones of grey. The bottom half was painted in a dark matt grey and the top half was painted a light glossy grey. An intense white light blasted through several glass-brick windows.
The walking dead seemed to be permanent fixtures, part of the art-décor just like the plastic charcoal coloured chairs. Their skin seemingly sages and slips off their shrunken skulls. Their mouths produce endless ticking and tocking sounds that flood the room with clicking and cackling conversations. The gases their bodies produce as they ferment and decompose pollutes the air with a stagnant melancholic smell. The smell slowly intoxicates Mick just as carbon-monoxide would.
He smiles although he’s in an awkward mood. The walking dead like flies waiting to be zapped, buzz about the light. He reckons that many of these poor dead souls surrounding him have obviously mistaken the light coming from the glass-brick windows for that light which is supposed to be at the end of the tunnel. Inwardly he chuckles remembering the movie line, I can see dead people. But privately he thinks to himself, speaking silently he voices his concerns of having become one of these poor saps and not having realised it. The smile slides from his face and is replaced with a façade of indifference.His eyelids grew heavier despite the bright light and his breathing deepened ensuring each cell getting its proper dose of CO gas. His vision goes black as his mind spirals down into a subdued state, a time-space which normally would befall him after several hours of recklessness. Being no stranger to such environments his conscience allows itself to be corkscrewed around like a bloodied rag caught in the spin cycle. It does nothing but bob, float and drift with the currents of the up coming storm. A vision of words comes to him via a bouncing ball that reveals the words by bursting through bubbles. Softly his mouth mutters a half coherent poem.
He smiles although he’s in an awkward mood. The walking dead like flies waiting to be zapped, buzz about the light. He reckons that many of these poor dead souls surrounding him have obviously mistaken the light coming from the glass-brick windows for that light which is supposed to be at the end of the tunnel. Inwardly he chuckles remembering the movie line, I can see dead people. But privately he thinks to himself, speaking silently he voices his concerns of having become one of these poor saps and not having realised it. The smile slides from his face and is replaced with a façade of indifference.His eyelids grew heavier despite the bright light and his breathing deepened ensuring each cell getting its proper dose of CO gas. His vision goes black as his mind spirals down into a subdued state, a time-space which normally would befall him after several hours of recklessness. Being no stranger to such environments his conscience allows itself to be corkscrewed around like a bloodied rag caught in the spin cycle. It does nothing but bob, float and drift with the currents of the up coming storm. A vision of words comes to him via a bouncing ball that reveals the words by bursting through bubbles. Softly his mouth mutters a half coherent poem.
