I get sick, age 30 years in two days and am confined to my bed, invalid and quarantined, reading books and making notes, going back to the days when my brain first exploded and I was full of hope. The places I would go, the things I would do, all of it now reduced to a mostly empty and unmade bed in a small room, in a nondescript town, in a small country in the middle of nowhere that no one plans to visit. My own incredible smallness in sync, once again, with the brevity of life and the meanness of my spirit.

I linger in sickness, explore it, feel the edges of infirmity and nurse regret for all the yoga yet undone, the friendships never made, the pain caused, the bottles drunk and the gradual dimming of the light.

I resolve, once again, to do better.