…Where I Saw a Moving Painting of a Goat. I Said to it Softly: Be Still My Bleating Art!
I passed through the clinic atrium and sat in the antiseptic, bright, white-walled room. I waited, patiently. The doctor had kept me there for almost an hour and half, and I was losing heart. The cheap clinic clock hands were so loud, they really ticked me off. News on my phone was about the horrible, overweight US president yelling about quitting the nuclear agreement with Iran. Tinyhands Orangehead was so angry and red-faced that he looked lipid.