A mad scientist, a cyborg, a visionary, a man of god
Not a racially segregated hospital, but rather the Private Medical Complex
The G&M, or GaMa Corp, not to be confused with the larger GM corporation.
It is taken for granted that medical technologies will advance apace in the future, permitting rapid healing and perhaps even shaping of the human body. This submission is to provide possible flavors for that medicine to come in.
At that moment the drizzle eased, and Ledoik could see as plain as day a blight upon the fields near the edge of the forest. Like a rock dropped into a pond, a wave of lighter shades of green emanated from the blights centre. Growing from the forest, where it was darkest, the field got lighter and lighter the further away it was from the blight. It was clear enough. The commander barked words, organising the archers, the few catapults they had and the giant rockslings to this side of the battlements. He motioned them to aim towards the blight, the dark patch near the fields edge
Blood, biles black and yellow and phlegm, these are the four vital humours that govern our bodies. Understand them, and health is a simple matter.
St. Gray of Galen, Lectures
A palimpsest is a manuscript, usually of papyrus or parchment, on which more than one text has been written with the earlier writing incompletely erased and still visible.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman