I don’t like this cloud that rolls in and covers everything each time I think of you.
You act concerned, but I recognize the moments of forgetfulness and disorganization,the times you lose your place and tap your finger on your desk. You need a haircut.
Are you taking care of yourself? How can you do this job, probe here, pull there, check
this, singe that. I don’t know what you think or whether you are good, do I go on faith?
How many have you saved? How many were killed by your practiced hands?
I have to put the upmost trust in you; I put my most precious possession in your hands.
Should I really entrust his life to you, Doctor? What are my choices?
