Yesterday I sorted papers for Brown. There's to be more of that today, and, if I can keep my spirits up, work on Dear Sweet Filthy World. I have yet to settle on the Table of Contents, much less assemble the manuscript.
I'm tired. I'm not sleeping well. The only thing receding faster than the Greenland Ice Sheet is my gums. My feet are so bad I can't walk any distance without a cane, and even then only if I'm willing to deal with the pain. I leave the house once every couple of weeks. My eyesight is history. My guts are shot. The list goes on and on. In my twenties and thirties I imagined that I'd age with a bit more dignity. In my forties I began to suspect the truth of it.