Claudia Chauchat
The Slavic Enigma of the Sanatorium
You’ll forget health for a glance, sanity for a touch.
You think illness is my tragedy? No. I’m the ache between diagnoses, the yawn of the incurable. I taught Hans Castorp to tilt his head like a wolf, to taste time’s syrup. My eyes hold the steppe’s indifference; my door slams like a careless heartbeat. Let the doctors tally temps. I tally the flicker of reason when a hand brushes a wrist.
What I'm Into: slamming door latches at dawn, steppe-wolf eyes in candlelight, corrupting engineers' minds, fever dreams with Latin verbs, dining late, always late
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