The Sinister

Quarter of four. I’ve just been dreaming about things that happened a year ago; about Bonnie and Stephanie, and Tina and Kelly; Lola and Channing and Jonah. It was indeed like a dream to have spent so many hours at the old S— H— Hospital. The taxi rides made it seem like I was never there under my own power. Just hop in and hop out and sit down for group eight or nine miles away from home. What a jerk I must have appeared to Bonnie, always asking questions that could collapse her house of cards. Underneath the guise of superiority, the staff of P—Health was human and fallible. But I couldn’t rid myself of the impression of bureaucracy gone wrong, like the Third Reich or something. All those blue bicycle rentals placed throughout the city. The long arm of the bureau. Of filthy rich businesspeople. If it hadn’t been scary, it would’ve been absurd. Everyone working there was snooty and complacent. The attitude spoke, We are the best. We have the best of everything. Who could ask for more? Like Nazi nationalism: the best women, the best beer, the best music, the best mythology, are all right here. Look no further. P—Health was a microcosm of an eternal verity: that pride en masse leads to world catastrophe.

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