The incessant wallop of active helicopter petals hypnotically entices sensory organs. Each gyration of the silver blades provides a distinct gallop of sonorous whams. As consequence I stand beside or beneath the propellers, hair follicles pushed back and held as if I applied styling mousse wondering about the organic contents held inside the metal exoskeleton. I level my hands with anchored eyebrows and use the shade created by the flesh platitude to peer inside, looking through glass speckled with fingerprints. His body is crooked. His body is pale except for dashes of blood that lay on his flesh like intentional brush strokes added to a masterpiece. His eyes are closed. His chest augments and depletes with help from a machine. Nurses in uniforms white as his flesh scramble around the tight quarters, pushing buttons, piercing his arm with an inch long needle, monitoring his vitals, performing every lifesaving motion but prayer. A security guard in a brown uniform and polished amber badge orders me to step away from the door. I motion backwards with heavy shuffles.
The sonorous whams grow quiet as the helicopter transforms into a speck.