Friday, July 15, 2005


In an square, squat building just North of the city is the bullet that killed Lincoln, trephening sets, dozens of foetuses floating in liquid, and a photo of legs piled off of a battlefield that made me cry and cry and cry.

Along the shelves of demonstrative femurs, infection-riddled and neatly sawed-off, are the stories of soldiers, maimed and recorded, displayed quite near their now-dry bones.

Civil War Colons of Medical Interest are neatly whipstiched and proudly displayed - some with rectums, some without (dysentery was the third martial force in the war) - bleached and ragged as they are.

As we walked to the Metro, the sky opened up, the roads became rivers, and we went drip, drip, drip all the way home.