It is dim. Half the room cast in shadows, the other half in fluorescent white.

And it would have been intimate. But it wasn't, if only because of unimportant company, chests that heave up and down with no real air entering into indifferent lungs.

And there is light, blinking without eyelids, open and close and close and open, below the glow of exits colored crimson, cholera.

Open and close and stay closed. And there never really was a key to the lock, so the pins never fit quite as well as they would fit into amphibious flesh dipped into a formaldehyde sauce, sating the hunger of children's curious minds because the only way to learn about life is to cut into it, apparently, and the only way to learn about a heart is to see it when it is gray and unbeating.

Apparently.

But just because you can touch it doesn't mean you should, doesn't mean it's actually there, doesn't mean skin and bones are always nouns.

Apparently.