so what are you studying?
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medical science, i tell them.
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blank faces.
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it's composed by a number of disciplines,
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i explain: bloods, germs, the immune system, tissues, cells and biochemistry; how everything works. fluidly.
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oh, someone will invariably say,
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i've got a cousin/uncle/friend who does that.
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i'll nod, and say yeah, it's not bad;
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pathology's pretty interesting.
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truth is, people are pretty interesting too.
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***
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girl in my haem class,
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neatly cropped short brown hair,
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skin starting to grow out of adolescence.
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she stands slightly apart from the group,
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clicking her fingers and drumming them on her shorts,
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bulky backpack strapped on, it's some surf brand.
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she wears expensive sunnies,
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a brown woollen jumper,
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and i'll bet that nobody would ever guess that in our first transfusion science class, she killed a patient.
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***
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goth guy doesn't look like he gets much vitamin d.
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he has black, unkempt hair which is always a bit too long
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and i don't think he's ever used shampoo.
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i used to drive past him on the way to class,
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see him standing on one hip, headphones on,
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a sullen look for every occasion.
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he once told me that he didn't like the kids who dressed gothic and hung out at the post office after school.
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***
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saber's from the middle east.
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his government sent him over from saudi to study.
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all expenses paid, hell he's already a biochemist back home.
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when i asked him and arena who was going to label the DNA with radioactive isotopes, he smiled and said that he'd already had children, so he wouldn't mind doing it.
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saber's only thirty.
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***
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in the sun, under the pergola, in the garden
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stands a fountain with a stone missing.
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the water is a murky, algae infested green
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and would probably give one meningitis if one was deranged enough to drink from it.
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smart asian guy sat down next to me,
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asked why i was always scribbling in my book.
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asked if i wrote poetry, could he read it.
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i say what makes you say that
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and he says because i know.
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maybe my english not so good,
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but you ask questions and so -
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curious - about everything.
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in the sun, under the climbing trellis,
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the skies flew on overhead, heat stood still,
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voices hushed into gentle hues of mute,
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he wrote, and i became the poem.
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