The Anteroom

“Please take a seat right there”, the receptionist tells me.

I take a seat, next to an old woman and a table with a new issue of “patient journal” on top of it. Somehow, I feel claustrophobic. This is the first windowless anteroom I've ever been to. What kind of sick freak architect might have designed this? There is a small skylight, but its glass is grounded. The walls are painted in a really boring shade of gray. That shade of Windows 95 UI gray which drove you and all the other kids insane back in elementary school. When there is no gray paint, the walls are boarded with gray wood. The small speaker, so small I can't even see it, desperately squeaking Twenty One Pilots, doesn't exactly improve my mood. In fact, I feel even more Stressed Out than I did before.

The receptionist is raping her keyboard. Clickerclickerclickericklick.

I have the idea to make a note on my phone in order to remember this madnclickerclicker.

The woman I'm sitting next to is now clickingmaking a moaning sound. Thanks.


I don't want to look to the woman on my left and I don't want to look to the "patient journal" in front of me. I clicker to the right. A 50-inch plasma television is fixed to a corner where two gray walls meet. TV desperate for foothold looks as if it may fall down any second and to be honest, I can understand it. The image is already blurry and black bars are moving over the screen, from top to bottom. Poor 24/7 TV. There isn't even interesting content on display, the pitiful thing is condemned to show an advertising loop for all it's life. An advertising loop about high-frequency ear therapy or similar shit.


The doctor's finally here.

— jonas, . archived from: strata v1

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