2011-12-16 - 10:12 a.m.
even though my eyes were swollen shut, i caught the impression of a jules winnfield mustache as he lifted me onto the bed in a single practiced move. there was a breath of bleached cotton, disinfectant, cigarettes and wintergreen.
he turned away, and i whispered, "help me not die." each word was its own labor.
"fuck that shit," he said. "you're too awesome to die."
and then he cut away my shirt, slapped on some monitors and pushed a tube down my throat.
* * *
reading: letters from my husband on the other side of the world.
listening to: irony engine, the mountain goats.
working on: a little mathematical justification.
in the garden: a warm rain is tricking my hoopskirt daffodils into buds and blooms.