He is a hospital junkie, his attachment to its aura of physical crisis and threat of personal annihilation is so moist and enveloping that it makes any distinction between religious worship and erotic fetish completely beside the point. There's nothing about it that doesn't excite him on some clammy fundamental level. He is in awe of doctors, but equally enamored of receptionists and janitors, anyone privileged to breathe the institutional air, which of course includes the patients and their visitors. He wishes he had someone to visit, or better yet to be a patient himself. Sadly he's never been sick or injured a day in his life, his stubborn robustness a constant source of displeasure. He could force the issue he knows, put himself in harm's way, force a medical situation; he could get a job at the hospital, in an office or pushing a mop. But he loves the hospital too much to fake his way in, he wants his immersion in the Life to be real, a natural unfolding.

He sees the stethoscopes hanging around the necks of doctors and somehow envies the dangling implements, he doesn't know how exactly. It's just a feeling. He likes the polished chrome of the adjustable beds, the way footsteps in the corridor echo in the middle of the night. His imagination lathers over endless hospital dramas and daytime soaps, over dozens of lurid paperbacks. The Secret Diary of Doctor Dildo. Whip Nurse. Orderly Orgy. Shocking Confessions of a Disgraceful Physical Therapist.