I find myself thinking of yesterday's anesthesia, the immediate and swirling blackness and loss of time. A strange sensation that could be compared to death, rebirth, and reconstitution. Regardless, today I am still recovering.
It's cooler than usual. I should walk about. If only I could manifest the energy to leave this chair.
Parainfluenza.
Everyone's asleep except for me. I fear that I'm getting sick.
Maybe coffee is the remedy, at least temporarily.
There are touches of autumn now: crisp air and yellowing leaves. A general malaise as I stare at hay rolls from the window.
Lightning, power outages, restless night
Sundays always have this palpable tension that I've never been able to shake. I look up and the day is gone.
Okay. I can finally breathe, but my back is out.
Such is the aging process: an ebb and flow of pain tolerances.
the day before is always bittersweet
Pantprazole sodium and coffee. Quite the combination. I hope to stop clearing my throat one day.
Up in the ER. Still as cold as ever.
Thinking about cabinets. Green cabinets.
One cup down. Thunder boomed last night waking all.
Serial Experiments Lain on a tiny laptop. My son resting on my chest.
A new, humid day much like the last.
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