May 28th, 2002 - 12:54 p.m.

This process called waking up.

A series of intricate metal vices have attached themselves to the spine, and are currently shaping the back into a painful curvature. Rough shards of glass and the tips of needles have adhered to the soles. The fingers swollen, connective tissues protesting being awakened. Cannot breathe. The head in such a state, that it no longer feels as if it were a congruent member of the appendages.

Otherwise, the day ought to go swimmingly. Ahem. No art gallery gallivanting today. Just loiter about, reading, protesting to the mirror, smoking, and the general things that one does to occupy a day in exile.

I sincerely hope that you are better then I. (Cue laughter.)

N.

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