I tried to read tonight, but the words came into my brain little squiggly figures with no voices. Mute arms and legs dangling, twisted and upraised. Somehow a switch is off or perhaps a fuse is blown. The circuitry stops behind my eyes. A mirror can read as I read. Tonight. Someone's dirty laundry is stuffed up my nose. Wrinkled socks and stained underwear. I tried to go to bed. It is misery. I could just as well sleep on the top of a post. My joints sing to me in the off key style of a tomcat. I feel like one of Picassos's cubist paintings tonight. My body parts have become disjointed, separated from the main, and lay scattered across the canvas of the mattress.
Every part beckons for attention. I must gather them up, bundle them together and rise. Watch television, take them for a walk outside. Come on follow me. The night is warm. The rubber plant died last week, but this night is warm. Look at the sky, see the stars, yes clouds too, and the leafless trees, see how the night sky rests on their branches. The body rebels. It is as futile as keeping children quiet on a bus. "Jimmy sit down, Ronnie don't pull Julie's, hair. A nose bleed? What happened Tommy? Connie don't swear, I don't care if Dennis farted. Dennis try to control yourself. Sit down! Quiet! Please!
Illness is not glamorous.
