cobwebs pony Dust sat on bookshelves and window ledges, baseboards and picture frames, like an assault, the target the middle of my face. The motion of lifting an arm to wipe a surface was only marginally more taxing than attempting to access descriptive words in my laden head. Internal illness has a way of compounding itself with a drudgery of external consequences as dishes, skin and tables go unwashed. The physical seeps into the psychological. Even words become exhausting. 240221 ... raze (i feel this. viscerally.) 240221 what's it to you? who go blather from