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Chicago

You can paint the walls green and blue; you can trade the cold bar lights for bulbs. You can hang posters and play music and knock out big windows, but the soul of a hospital, its atomic nature, is its smell.

Chicago wonders if they pipe it in through the little oxygen nose masks. Maybe it steams off the coffee? But it’s not much like coffee–more like instant oatmeal, cooked with disinfectant and chewed fingers and piss.

Things are fucked up, says the smell in its little yellow voice. Things are fucked for you and they are not getting better.

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