this is reflective writing, much less poetic, so to speak...
as the cold wind blows in through spring's fresh newborn air, I wonder why snow is piling up outside the like mountain of blankets covering me, as I shiver even in a sweater and linen pants. there is a glass of orange juice and water both at the side of my bed, alongside well read texts and a few different remotes for the less intellectual pleasures on my bedridden behalf.
I've finished a few good poems and an entire book (Blankets, by Craig Thompson, check it out today and finish it later...you'll understand) and I still feel like nothing's been accomplished today. It's the sedintary feeling that gets me blue; I cannot stand just lying/sitting/coughing here without moving. I mean, I throw words like beatnik and bohemian around quite often, but jesus, who'dof thunkit that even I couldn't handle a day of rest?
at any rate, it was a much needed rest, I feel 100% again today, and am looking forward to exploring winter's visiting ghost around Westerville. Or just sleeping more.
All I'll say is being sick isn't so awful with plenty of love to go around from my darling dear.
Thank you Krista, your support was overwhelming yesterday.
PS, faithful readers, all none of you; spring break work coming soon, probs this weekend.