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It is less quiet here than I had imagined, and the sounds do not blend together into anything one could sleep deeply to. Something is always waking me up but I always miss whatever it is, I do not know if it was a bedpan being dropped or my roommate trying to get out of bed again. She stands, staggers, tips the IV, falls, people come running. She cries after they leave, all sniffles, like a child. I never talk to her, I slide away from her little sounds.

I had plans, I keep reminding myself. They have all gone to vapor. There must have been something I wanted to do in the walking world. If I could think it through, I could come to a conclusion but sleep always seems like the better option, even ragged sleep like windy clouds. I drift. I forget to ask myself whether I am awake. I forget to notice. The tv is always on either way.

I was the one who called for my own help, I was able to reach my cellphone and dial. I heard my voice, peculiar, faraway. When she asked me where the car was, I had to think awhile, I was preoccupied. Upside down. I was disturbed, distracted by the amount of blood welling up out of the ripped meat of my thigh. That can't be right. This is dramatic. This is dumb.

They say these pills and fluids are mending me but I have my doubts. I think I shattered more than they can fix. I have dissociated everything from everything. It is all taken apart like a clock spread across the rug. I am little parts and I don't understand what they do. I did not build me; I cannot fix me. It's all right. I work independently. It is better, I avoid all confusion and embarrassment. The catheter does not bother me; it is a necessity. It is efficient. I think I shattered more than they can see on the machines.

I think I have learned everything there is to learn about these ceiling tiles. But I have not grown bored, that's gone.

The nicest thing about forgetting is that you don't have to dread the bad things, and good things are a recurring surprise. The kind nurse comes to wake me for good and bad things. She sweeps warm sponges down my arms and tells me it will not be long till I get to take a shower. Her voice is calm and she tells me about her day, needless, forgettable, but it is nice to have her voice around me and her firm hands making me clean. I blink and she's gone or coming back hours later, days, with a syringe.

When I cannot remember your face I can still usually hold onto your name. These and many other thoughts fill my mind while I lie recovering under the gigantic raintree here at number nine hospital. Soon I will be home.

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