The deleted world returns. A split second glimpse through the veil of blood. Subject to initiation, subject to interrogation, certain figures in the dreams act as messengers, pulling me towards an essential destiny. A continuous surface between her fingers and the skin, between the frozen puddles and the muddied snow. Analysis of usage patterns reveals a taste for an entirely blurred and impersonal mythology which the actual narrative only suggests. Was the deceit of my memory entirely to blame? These voices were lost on me, disconnected, a low humming somewhere beneath the sick in my stomach, webbed-finger mudras, silt-gilled angels. The doctors monitor the hiding places and spread open their ribs, asking potential patients to step out into the hallway, where they ask the narrow path of the cure, the addled rejections of all the ghost-plagues which fed on the breath in the throat. They needed multiple viewpoints, nests of cameras, to even see the human form; I was lost to them. The elderly sang in the waiting rooms, lost in closets, the slow drift of empty gurneys. The alarms of the monitors take on a harmony, a counterbalance, which alerts no one but distracts fellow patients, immediately forgetful of what it was they were so concerned about.

the exit is hidden within the exit