August 21, 2021:
Today I'm in intensive care after nearly bleeding to death on the 110 degree floor of a house surrounded by dark trees and fires from the north.
There he was, on the floor, in the house, alone, without love or accomplishments, in exile, from his home, from his life, from his exile itself.
The nurses are kind, my pulse is normal, they bring salmon for dinner. It's like a clean and comfortable hotel filled with electronic devices and alarms.
A few rooms down a man is screaming in dementia. I can clearly hear a councilor and his family discussing hospice care.
From time to time they want me to walk, wearing hospital socks which grip the floor. This is to prevent muscle loss, and promote circulation, to guard against blood clots. I'd prefer to stay in bed.
I am writing my book. Typing into my phone. In very many respects it really doesn't matter where I am.
One day.
One day.
One day.
One day.
One day.
One day.
One day.