Tickory Tickory Tock, The Doc Forgot To Knock

Open my box, dear adversary, and assess its contents. Scribble the imperfections in your crude clipboard and vomit them out to all, like a nauseous choirmaster. You are sick, not I. 

This room, pure white (save the blue bruise of your presence), is my afterlife. When you are here, you interrupt it like a cough in a funeral, a man spilling his mouthy bucket of phlegm everywhere he speaks. When you leave, I am alone with the loud tolls of the clock on the wall sending quaking tremors through my ears as I lay, waiting for your slimy hand to grip my door and enter again.

But how I love the scent of the ladies entering my room, wheeling in their gorgeous goblets of heaven and wielding syringes like tiny swords. Each day they fill my body with needles. I am their happy little pincushion. The swords bring me pleasure no lover can, as I drift in space and float to the time kept by that clanging clock: 

tick-tock

tick-tock 

tick-tock 

Until the loud knock of my enemy wakes me again.