Seeking out the darkness of diseased tissue in a landscape of peridot bracken behind a quarter-ton door, green is black curled into itself, a pathology of subcutaneous growth pitted against its victim's florescent cells...

resurrecting the loneliness of this nightmare region, an aporia too strong for physicians to prescribe.

Even Vesalius' skilled fingers could only perform a macabre dance: moist palms pressing against hips, knees raised up to flatten back, eyes gazing into an eternity of faceless machinery, ears licked by a bane of laughter burning swollen veins radiating crabs' legs in warm saliva boiling off copper cauldrons, a grid of phased electrons stepped up to blocks of Lipowitz metal, bombarded through a window of neutral vulnerability...

or slowed to X-rays bleaching sea-green air in line of sight of an aquaplast mask, targeting the next "surgical strike."

Because St. Peregrine loved his god he rose from the ashes with his whole being, as if apostate cells metastasize into Quetzalcoatl's waxing and waning.