i see a patient on a white bed. nurses surrounding him, they're all familiar faces. they all have one order, or maybe one request for the patient. one way to save him. he has to talk. while the idiot keeps thinking about why he shouldn't open up and talk, the diagnosis states that the patient is not in love. he is sick. terminally sick. all the nurses know all about him. but he still refuses to talk. i am in the room. i enjoy listening to his heart beat sound on the machine that's connected to him. he could be me. like that one day when i woke up and i decided today is the last day i would talk. that day, she went for a walk and had an accident under the highway and she died. i didn't talk. but i laughed. she was lovely. but dead. and all i could do was to remain quiet for the rest of my life. i mean .. not me. the patient dying on the white table in the white room. what am i doing here in this room?