Pain comes at me and I take it, chew it for a few minutes, and spit it back out. It's just not my thing anymore.

Nothing again. No one is listening. No one is waiting to hear the kicking of a man above. It is unexpected. You have no ears for someone like me.

I often cannot believe the things I do.

If you think I'm annoying and preachy now, you should have known me in grade school.

Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the tree calligraphic.

When I'm doing work online or on the computer, it's one thing. When I want to read, I want to go elsewhere, and I want to be away from the screen.

In hospitals I feel palpable comfort. I feel the competence, the expertise, so much education and money, all of the supplies sterile, everything packaged, sealed tight. My fears evaporate when the automatic doors shush open.