First meal or last supper? I'm not sure yet. Grilled cheese and tomato soup seem like a meal for the sick. I didn't eat much of it. Fearful, I guess. I needed sustenance, though. My gut got no worse. I'm waiting to see if it has gotten any better.
I added to my illness last night. Wrote the wrong thing in a casual line to an old friend. It was an insouciant line, but the rebuke has caused me deep embarrassment. Now I'm sick in soul as well as body. I've become too casual and silly, I think, in my entombment. With no serious work, no professional conversations, my mind has shriveled, perhaps. I'm without feedback. All I hear is reverb.
Life becomes more like a Beckett work every day now. I live in a world constructed by Kafka. I long for days of naivety and laughter. Recent lessons have been harsh.
Gargoyle me, a hideous guardian in a shrunken land.
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