A friend of my fathers is dying of cancer. He is in his seventies. He was once a tall, robust man. Now he can only lie in bed, not even able to talk. It terrifies me, and makes me so thankful I have my own health.
I was good to myself today, I walked about four miles. The leaves on the sidewalk cling to each other in brown clumps. Everything goes in cycles. I wrote some more, and repaired another picture for my friends. More Adventure Time, more playgrounds, more Red Dwarf. I'm at the part in Atlas Shrugged where the train full of politicians suffocates, and she details for about five pages why the damn liberal hippies deserved it. A brilliant woman, but with the subtlety of a piranha.
Goodnight my friends, be well.