Sleeping while sitting up, something about the way the rain sounds against the window, and the sun stretches through the curtains, the responsibility that lingers, and the hope for getting [back] out into that big, germ-filled world has me feeling like a child. I’ve been in bed for too many days and the woozy has me dreaming of nonsense, and writing poetry. Clarity returns to me as quickly as it left. And he is leaving. He has to leave me here. My loving caretaker must get on the road to Arcade Fire land. It seems that a lack of health is more confining than a desk job.