My bare fingers are the extension of my horizontal. In this line as the orthopedist said I perfectly straight. My vertical crosses my mind at rest and pain of my bones. My body is sand removed. Airtight. My mobility castrated. When I took on that stretcher doubted my personality. I had to assure them it was me and not another. My name a thousand times between stops and the white light as a symbol of immortality. Yes, I am told ⎯. My voice could not be beyond the reticulated wall observation room. My eyes open for anything served. My body is just a transport. Vulnerable. Easy to break. I saw it as if he brought dragging a tumor. I am this body.
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