waiting. . .

is the overused scene. . .

Alone in the white tiled room that stretches for miles. Voices are hollow, echoing hard off those empty walls. And yet the only sound is the clock that is melting, dripping longer on the wall, with a second hand ticking loud in your ears and moving backwards.

And [much to Sam's dismay] the world is black and white.

It is the place you live in when you wait for the phone to ring. . . the answers to come. . . or the blood to stop. . .

And if you could only find something to fill that quiet. . . that awful void. . . to keep your hands busy or stomach full or thoughts quiet. . . But feet pace from task to task finishing nothing. . . Touching this, moving that. . . only to find that the clock ticks louder and it is only five minutes earlier than the last time I checked. . .