I go to bed early and sleep until two or two-thirty. I roll around until five and then fall asleep for an hour. I get up tired.
What goes on in my head for those two and a half or three hours, I don't want to tell you. But it is disturbing.
I drag myself through the day without much enthusiasm. Some days my condition mimics rigor mortis, but usually I am merely catatonic.
My anxiety is due to a new perpetual paranoia. Relatively new, but growing stronger weekly.
This is the first time in my life that I have not liked a generation. There is nothing to do about this, of course. They will prevail, so I don't resist. Resistance is futile. And truly, I like many of them, but they are like domesticated feral cats. You know that once in awhile they are going to bite you.
I haven't read Tu Fu or Li Po for many years. I wonder if anybody has.
I laughed at C.C. once for saying something about a guy who made antiques. All of the sudden, though, I know what he meant.
I just thought you should know that.
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