but the doubleself is help. I've let the one slip inside another, hoping for a respite. Today, I've taken to my bed. All this wondering about being ill, all this...hoping for an explanation. I'm letting myself sleep as much as I want, and it is ... a lot. hours upon hours. I have no desire to go outside. yes the sun is lovely and I notice the bees now at the lavender and the birds trilling in the hedges, but it's like looking at everything through a window -- this fatigue. I write but the letters look alternately like bones harvested from an owl pellet or temperamental metal filings arranging and rearranging themselves around frenetic and rhizomatic poles. I can't help thinking "who cares?"
I'm not telling anyone, except myself, in a code I'll call latin, though most of the vernacular is language I've stolen from the dog. I cannot take credit for it.