it starts with a call, a call from his mother. sophia says âcome quick, macgyv er's been hurt. he was just on his way home from saving the world again, he got jumped by some kids, he went down, now he's dying.â so i threw on my coat an r an out the door, sped through the night to the old hospital, where the doctors s aid to wait, so i camped in the ward, watching the clock as it haemorrhages time so slow. and i've lingered here so long. the air in here so cold. the shallow b reath so quiet. the shibboleth of macguiver laid bare, flat on a table, blackene d by bruises he couldn't explain. and there was nothing he could build to save h imself out of biros and blue-tack. they opened up his cavities in the operating theatre, but the doctors couldn't find a heart, his lymph glands running motor o il. his calloused fingers lie inert, their intricate ability punctured by the go d-shaped hole in adolescent consciousness. he couldn't build a bomb to mend the splinters of his broken heart. his home-made radar couldn't find a way to make h is weapons art. macgyver bleeds out all of his rationalism. isaac newton, your l ever is not long enough. the scottish enlightenment a sinking ship. so i left th e hospital with the bleep of life support machines a memory.
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