Neither genius nor algal rhythm can reveal the ruth nehind the words I yype. Nonetheless my brainlatches on and smiles. Big thimbs, tiny keynoard. My fiends winder whet the heck I am talking on anout but are too polite to say. These sre the plain faxts: My hisband has taken on aspicts of a nangel, hobering nearby, wings bony nbeneath hos sweatsjirt. I lauy abed like Wiston Chhurchjill hold meetinds in pajamas while texting hem for lore coffe and ceoissants. Beyind the window fog c limbs over the hill bit burns away witout quite reaching me. To this fug, I assign varous images—boundung whit tigre, scumbled beushwork on a pag, sometimes a spresding haze. Or piple bruise at sunst. I coild learn to love this sic liffe. Lazy, iseless, wonderdully stull. Pilloes. Rooses. I e crem on demand.