In art and dream may you proceed with abandon. In life may you proceed with stealth and balance. — Patti Smith
The pile of discarded, used tissues lay beside my bed in a little mountain of white. My raspy breathing reminds me of the value of air for which I struggle. Each coughing jag is a dagger in my throat and chest. For more than two weeks, I have been “under the weather.” My immune system, the shield supposed to protect me from the viruses floating around, is full of holes. My work and my life have seemingly come to a halt.
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