Home is like this doctor sitting in front of me wearing a loose, plain blue shirt. Home is like the fan rotating lazily above me. In here the silence takes on a certain denseness, once you cross the door from the waiting area into his office. It’s a small room, green walls closing in on you.
The doctor silently writes in his record book. He must enjoy the quiet air, it nicely complements his warmth. A lone portrait of him hangs on the wall to his right. On his left are colorful, simple patterns that seem to have been set up by his little daughter. He seems like a man who would have a little daughter and a little son. This is both his office and his examination room. It may not be as large or as furnished as others I’ve seen, but the receptionist greets nicely when you walk in. This place is not in a hurry. Not much is said, just low murmurs from the waiting area outside. The fan creaks lazily at the ceiling, rotating.
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