K is in pain, short of breath, and easily fatigued. Nevertheless, she has a 21st Century to-do list that only grows. Every entry is urgent, for obvious reasons. But is every entry important? That's in the eye of the beholder.
K is in pain, short of breath, and easily fatigued. Nevertheless, she has a 21st Century to-do list that only grows. Every entry is urgent, for obvious reasons. But is every entry important? That's in the eye of the beholder.
It's the rule:
There's no limit to how fucked you can be.
I have a short morning commute (for which I am grateful) and a short Spotify playlist to go with it: Pete Seeger's version of Little Boxes, RHCP'sSnow [Hey Oh!], and U2's It's a Beautiful Day. Not very creative, but we're not here to critique my DJing skills, we're here to talk about Little Boxes.
I remember an April day Karen and I spent on Dartmoor back in the late '80s. In the middle of that sunny spring morning, a dark squall blew in, with low clouds, hail and eventually snow.
I get hit by great gusts of anger from my wife. These days, It seems that the best I can hope for is a forced smile and an artificial "good morning."
My wife is dying of metastatic, triple-negative breast cancer. Barring unexpected shifts in the probabilities of life, she will predecease me, fairly soon.