There’s a waiting room in Winchester that nobody enters, and nobody leaves. The doctors don’t exist, just the chairs, the clocks, and the magazines that turn slower by the hour. The receptionist fondles her pet tarantula with her long, purple fingernails. There’s a waiting room in Winchester where people have waited so long and so desperately for their appointments, that they’re crazy— they can’t remember why they are there or what the blue sky looks like. There’s a waiting room in Winchester where windbreaker-covered, wheezing old people wait their turns with withered fingers turning the pages of time. What is this waiting room? Here’s a hint: If I’ve been there, you’ve been there too.