The thick layers of drywall seem to be cracking now. As the blue paint is fractured with a fist of rage. All through this conjunction of painful yelps and aching bodies, there is a silence that haunts me to the core. The cotton curtains try to lend some privacy within the shoe box building of a smokers cough and the bodies in a long term relationship with medicine. The light bulbs are engulfed with a brightness that hurts my eyes. So, keep them shut to the unfortunate reality of my ill surroundings. I never know if it is night or day, there is no life beyond the sliding doors. These gowns are eggshell white, polka-dotted. They reveal too much of ourselves. The one I wear is still covered in chunks of food that I coughed up in my sleep.