procedure     

You got up and had coffee, listened to the news, got dressed and moved through routine. You were so lax you were liquid. Today was a day for great composition, another Aeneid. You thought, I'll read Chaucer, I'll prune my plants, I'll exist and be real for a few hours.

And you went to the gentle offices, with the optimistic secretaries and white-washed walls. And all those people wanting to be white-washed. It was a kinder, gentler world than you were used to, and they used the term 'clients,' as opposed to 'patients,' which is what they used to say. And you went and you sat and watched. There were some clients there who seemed to move in slow motion, and others who were blurred around the edges. You were the latter today, though you will be the former tomorrow. There were some there who looked overly deliberate when they spoke, as though they weren't sure the sounds they formed were English sounds. They said wot not what and apothanein thelo. You were one of these clients, the polyglots, the burnt and blown open. You blurred around the edges.

Seconds became minutes. All of this was so reflexive you weren't even sure what you were waiting for. Minutes upon minutes, the clock metronomic, the secretaries smiling and greeting, smiling and greeting. Your toes were twitching inside your boots, and your nails perforating your palm. You realized you'd stopped breathing. And it began at the base of your spine, flickering towards the base of the brain, electric caterpillars, the ric-a-nic mania shivering in the nerves. It might be days before you get to sleep.

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