Walking out of the place where people are breathing their tortured last, hopping in the car to drive home under a golden wedge of moon trying valiantly to light up the human race.
The streets are mostly empty, and the echoes of those who are losing their life are loud, and they bounce off the graffitied walls of the city.
I don’t know how many times I’ve driven home from hospital at midnight, but it’s so many my car could do it on its own. But I’m always wired, astounded by the savage energy that hits the emergency department, every day, all day, night and day. And I come home to a sleeping house, pour an inadvisedly large glass of wine, and try and process the madness of life.