The technician returns, sliding the door open. The world rushes back in—the smell of the waiting room, the rustle of magazines, the ticking clock on the wall. I sit up. I am solid again. I am heavy with the weight of my own biology.
The room is the color of a bruised sky, that specific shade of industrial grey designed to absorb anxiety. It smells of ozone and floor wax. radiologie02
Se connecter
Contact
Liens
