It doesn't make sense (as per usual), but I enjoy the descriptions.
Coherence is lost around the 3rd line. Oh well, I understand it.
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Her hands, which were normally sweaty, felt disconcertingly dry.
The hairs on her arms felt like bristles, and the nurse wouldn’t stop asking her if she was sure she hasn’t had any history of cancer in the family.
Mother—Martha—sat with a comatose man in room 132, smoking and writing an essay on his arm.
The low, rolling AC suddenly dipped and halted, leaving eerie silence that made the nurses realize how loudly they had been speaking.
A janitor, his heart on his sleeve, walked by the mob of reporters crowding the lobby, and only hoped he hadn’t mopped there yet.
Feeling ignored, but only just smart enough to realize, the father twisted his fingers behind his back and wished his daughter were him.
A collage of prescriptions fluttered to the floor as the man in the white lab coat slipped on his own Viagra.
Helplessly, she wished the cold feeling on the back of her neck were his hand.
Two hallways over, a woman did, indeed, have all her affairs in order, and would they please call her brother in law so she could hold his hand?
Martha, cynical and useless, fell asleep next to the dying man, but not before putting out her cigarette on his arm.
A teenage boy six chairs away from X admired the dip of her breasts as she hunched over, and didn’t even consider the photographers were for her.
Young women, too scared to smile, waited nervously for their boyfriends outside, thinking about their fathers instead.
X breathed until the door slid open, eyeing the doctor, and knowing the answer from his swagger.
Father cringed when she asked if she could throw herself down the stairs, and Martha would have laughed.
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