(a quiet prayer) I wait for my turn,as the machine we dread hums on —cold and lifeless,yet the very thingthat keeps us clingingto breath,to time. Around me sit the others —some new, still trembling,and the veterans,those who have done this for years,their arms marked by battlesfought in silence. We are many.The young, the old —but mostly the frail.The rich come too,but more often,it is the poorwho fill these chairs. Hope here is thin —a thread fraying slowly.Like candles left too long to burn,we flicker,we fade. Some pray still,others no longer bother.Some have accepted,while many just wait —not for healing,but for an end,for sleep,for peace. This is a kind of living…