It stands like a grand mosque, silent and only coming up with a sound five times a day, calling for prayers from amongst the faithful. Not. Colored red, it never speaks like those around it, on the loudspeakers, its sound too dangerous, a kind of invitation to commotion.
There aren’t any wailing relatives around, except for people signing up for the bodies, the dead cold meat brought to the morgue, from a place almost a mosque, almost. The age-old ceilings of Emergency at Mayo Hospital help absorbing the sounds, emanating from the dead bodies. No, the stench. The stench of meat, first alive and now dead, long left to rot.