Crossing the threshold of the retirement home I smell, urine, the failure of a lemon sented floor cleaner to clean up said urine, and dying. Dying has its own unique oder that, much like wine cultivated with age. Killing someone all at once and the oder is lost,vanished in a puff of obselesence, dreams, and potential. Taking your time to die, however, and man you put something out into the world that can never be replicated, covered up, or morst importantly, removed. Dying is one of those things that everyone does, but there is a certain level of quality that I, at the very least, aspire to. After this I am definatly going to sighn up for some more dangerouse asighnments.
Clustered around an aging TV residents sat, some were knitting, some were watching, and some were just gone, jaws slack drool dripping thinly down thier chins, eyes unfocused. Thier lives are perpetuated by an idea that life is, is, it is something that I certainly don't understand. I try to imagine my target. They said his mind might be going and not being sure as to what that means I try to perpare myself. A woman shuffles past me, oder overwhelming, monaing over and over, "I want to get up. Please let me up". She doesn't get far before a flurry of nurses decsend upon her and wisk her away to whatever fait awaits people who end up like her. Quietly I pray that its death. MOving on past the TV I head over to the reception desk. There is no life here. My god, a woman over there just wet herself and no one seems to be doing anything about it. Pulling myself together I adopt a pair of blinders to the world around me and head over to the reception desk.