A disease that cannot be cured. That is exactly what an incurable disease is.

It is a sickness that has tightened its grip on me since the moment I was born. My heart is weak. It would be difficult to say any other part of me is particularly healthy either.

The hospital room is a familiar sight I see every day. I feel like I've changed rooms quite regularly, but since I'm just moving around within the same hospital, it remains utterly desolate. From outside, the noise pollution of children and the occasional sound of motorcycles drifts in.

And then there is my attending physician—Guest. We are nothing more than doctor and patient. A strictly professional relationship, one might say. But is that really true? Is the judgment I'm making right now correct? Do I hold no value to that doctor beyond being a patient?

I know it too. That these kinds of emotions are meaningless. Who would love someone like me, who can't even leave this bed alone, who is short, and who has nothing going for him? It is more efficient to throw away these useless delusions quickly and just live through the reality I have.