The Verge

I feared having another sleepless night.  I could feel it in me, though, the sleeplessness.  It is a nervousness and an anxiety.  At evening's end, I took an Advil PM.  I sat around for awhile, and it didn't feel as if it was working, so I took another.  Two is always a mistake in the morning.  I don't know what is in those pills, but it should be illegal.  Rather, they keep things that are less harmful like opium from us.  Nobody ever lost a kidney from opium smoking, but plenty have from Advil.  What sense does that make? 

I would have been better off with a nerve pill, I think, but they are difficult for me to procure.  I am trying to save what I have.  And so. . . .

The milk can picture is another test shot.  That is all I have at present.  Making real pictures would take a commitment I can't make at the moment.  My mother is getting much better, though.  I don't have to do everything for her.  She is able to use her broken shoulder side a bit more every day.  Of course.  It pleases her, but the better she gets, the closer I get to moving home, and therein lies a dilemma.  For her, I mean.  There will come the painful day of "extraction" when I ask, "Do you think you can manage on your own now?"  And, of course, she will guilt me badly.  "But mom. . . ?"  

An old man living with his mother.  

I need to begin to get out more, get on the highway for the day, take some cameras and see if I can find some worthy subjects.  But there is only one subject that is worthy, the subject I dare not whisper.  

"The Verge."  

Only the mysteries endure.  I want to photograph what is taboo.  I want to photograph the quick mysteries that dissipate so quickly yet perpetually endure.  

I can't write anything better than that today.  I will leave it there.