The Medical Suite

This is the first new painting for Demon City. Click to enlarge

For Demon City:

A thick unreality hangs over the Medical Suite, making it always feel bland. You remember: Nothing much happens or happened there, nothing much gets remembered but clipboards the tin skin of balloons.

Colors plays across the dark, you are hooked up to tubes waiting out your migraine forever. There's a toy piano for dogs in the Medical Suite, it's amusing--also: magazines.

Through the nice glass and over the unoccupied terrarium of the Medical Suite's central well, you can see the awesome parking lot.

Sometimes they have scones. They're dry. Your friends can visit you, but they have to have one on a shitty white plate.

A nurse might say "Thanks for coming back to the Medical Suite. We have a tube we can put through your neck and into your mom".

You'll come back to your bed to a note saying "Don't worry your pretty little head about that focus on getting well within like your thoughts. PS we hate you signed the Medical Suite"

You'll begin to notice something's wrong, but by then the exits won't be where they were before.

It's not true that, in the Medical Suite, no-one cares. Everyone cares about everything: you, pencils, grandmothers, milk, Sesame Street murals.

Care is precisely and exactly evenly distributed. Let's get you in the best shape you can be in, also let's get this slightly creased paper cup in the best shape it can be in.

The Medical Suite is a Borgesian, encyclopedic project--it contains every single possible mistake you could make in generating a human. They're not proud but they are thorough.

They understand that they're failing you. But there are so many priorities.

They have a swimming pool in the Medical Suite. It is full of tears.

The doctors arrive with a high-pitched keening. They do their best. It's very bad.

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