I spoke to you yesterday for another two hours. My feelings went from upset, to calm, from loving, to: please, someone make an appointment with a neurologist and find a better cardiologist. I go to sleep waking frequently from the heat. Arlo begins his howl, begging for release of some kind at 4am. He is right on schedule. Never missing the times he has instinctively set up to punctuate the life he lives. I didn't have enough time with you. I've returned still unsettled. We are not done yet. I'm having a difficult time separating me from you. Maybe it is not me from you but rather we are in this thing together. All things are a form of life. I wake up with William Faulkner's, As I Lay Dying seared on my corneas, which instantly brings me back to Jim Case and his comment about Faulkner and the term stream of consciousness. I take the book off my shelf, thumb it, and place it back. I come to my computer and search the book title's meaning and, voila! A piece is ...
mostly gentle, sometimes turbulent