Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow. T.S. Eliot
In the white room, there are approximately 568 cracks in the ceiling. In the White room, there are approximately 338 wires flowing, connected to peripheral IV's, running alongside veins, tubing liquids and monitoring heart rates. In the White Room, there are approximately 128 square tiles, clean and neatly packed together, non-betraying. In the White room there are 98 medical books stacked on the shelf, 58 pens scattered over the desk, 28 papers posted on the bulletin board, advertising proper health care.
Kimimaro knows this, Kimimaro knows this well, and when he strings it up all together like that, he feels almost silly for knowing so, but then reminds himself it's because Orochimaru-Sama couldn't possibly finance something like Leaves of Grass. Or The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Lord of the Flies. Poetry books and literature aren't the expenses Orochimaru-Sama, economy plummeting, can support right now. So what can he do, day after day, when Kabuto sucks and sucks his veins dry, the shifting driving syringe tapping into the reserves of cool liquid. What can he do, day after day, to divert the hunger he feels and the taste of sawdust in his mouth.
What can he do? He's just running out of things to count now, that's all. Until Kabuto tells him he can go, once he finishes cutting out the valuable pieces in little squares and sterilizing them. Because Kabuto cannot possibly understand poetry, Kabuto cannot see the vague lines in Kimimaro's eyes, he cannot see his mouth slightly parted, his tongue moving slightly. He cannot see the weariness under his eyes, and when he goes to hook Kimimaro to heart rate monitor, he, of course, cannot see how warily it beats.