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Funny as it sounds—especially considering the amounts of drugs I’ve been proud to consume—those pills, like dots, raised & particular, look more and more like some kind of secret Braille spelling out the end of my life. Perhaps if I had insurance; if one hundred and seventy-five dollars meant I was twenty—five over my deductible, I’d think differently. But it’s not and so I don’t. As far as I can see, there’s no place for me in this country’s system of health, and even if there were I’m not sure it would make a difference. Something I considered over and over again while I was sitting in that stark office, barely looking at the National Geographic or People magazines, just waiting on the bustle of procedure and paper work, until the time came, quite a bit of time too, when I had to answer a call, a call made by a nurse, who led me down a hail and then another hall and still another hail, until I found myself alone in a cramped sour smelling room, where I waited again, this time on a slightly different set of procedures and routines carried out by these white draped ministers of medicine, Dr. Ogelmeyer & friends, who by their very absence forced me to wonder what would happen if I were really unhealthy, as unhealthy as I am now poor, how much longer would I have to wait, how much more cramped and sour would this room be, and if I wanted to leave would I? Could I? Perhaps I wouldn’t even know how to leave. Incarcerated forever within the corridors of some awful facility. 5051. Protective custody. Or just as terrifying: no 5051, no protective custody. Left to wander alone the equally ferocious and infernal corridors of indigence. To put it politely: no fucking way. I know what it means to go mad. I’ll die before I go there. But first I have to find out if that’s where I’m really heading. I’ve got to stop blinking in the face of my fear. I must hear what I scream. I must remember what I dream.