January 9, 2009

Full moon in the pale lavender of the east.

Wasted the morning (“I was sick,” I whine), but have been productive through the afternoon. Made a homemade dish for a potluck, a concession so rare I hope somebody remarks on it.

Drinks at the Usual last night after choir. I can home heroically tired, with the tiredness you have when you’re a boy and you’ve run all day, lying down under the quilt in delicious pain, almost whimpering on that edge between distress and comfort, feeling the warmth gather around me. The cats shored me up on all sides, as otherwise I might fall to ruin. Not one dream, not one movement until morning.