You walk in through these extra large sixteen-foot wide ambulance bay doors, into an expansive glowing gray room, nobody looks at you, nobody cares.  Shady, fluorescent lighting dims and flickers over the room, but the music is just at the right level to kill out the BZZZPT of the flowing current.  The sidewalls and ceilings are standard ER color; flat, bland and gray with a heart monitor pinstripe to remind you you're still alive; the floor is made of seedy white speckled linoleum.  It gives it a somewhat cryptic look, like a horror movie set in a decrepit hospital, but there's something different going on here.  This place is packed.  Not with zombies, lepurs, or mental patients. No morbidly obese diabetics, no STD contractors chatting up the anorexics, no gruesomely broken bones; but awkwardly enough everyone still wants drugs.  This place is packed with slow-trodding opiators, nodding off in mid-step then bouncing back like the Night Just Started: Take 47.  You hear someone shout out “Line please,” and it tickles your insides. This place has an abundance of beautiful latex nurses, running through the room with a sweet mixture of uppers, downers and drinks on a tray.  These are exclusive.  Everyone on the floor has to order their drinks from the bar, but for a nurse, you gotta kick-up $500 to the man upstairs first.  You walk to your curtain-shrouded table; eerily, just a hard bed with chairs around it, only thinging missing is your dying relative or friend holding your tray of drugs for you. You ask your nurse for a backscratcher, and she understands.  She knows that your not itching, yet; your hankering.  She's well aware that it'll take 3-4 vicodins on a bottle of Jack Daniels that's had opium soaking in it for weeks to please you.  You feel special with anticipation, giddy.  Ordering Special K is just like getting a bowl of cereal at your hometown diner.  The bar is smack in the middle of the room, at the ER's Nurse Station, but this isn't where the drugs are.  The drugs are in the Pharmacy, coincidentally behind the DJ booth, the DJ has the drugs.  That's the far wall, and like the entrance wall, it's glowing.  Eighty one-foot-wide tubes line either wall, top to bottom, with a the same as the backdrop of the Pharmacy.  They run a series of dark and abismal colors of liquid downwards in a sea of bright colored lights, each one pushing on the next, essentially like giant lava lamps. The colors are inversed behind the DJ, as if the drugs alone weren't enough of a trip.  The Clinic has a really slow motif; the tubes, the substances, the music.  Perfect alibi for the name.  The pharmacy on the far wall thrives off the slow motion music it pumps out; the beautiful sounds of the residents, soothing the senses and creating the mellow mood.  This isn't a club for beligerency, this isn't a club for movement, this isn't a club for clubbing.  This is a club for Sedation.