I have surrounded myself with the journals of Slyvia Plath, any movie I can find, and as much sleep as I can tie down.
It's coming sporadically and horribly.
"Sleep is the poor man's respite" never was a filthier lie.
The dreams are unfiltered and raw, much like my aching body.
Whatever your prayers look like and whoever might be listening, think of me when it all goes down, yeah?
The doctor has taken complete control. I hope to be further from Bed-Ridden on a sooner than later time scale.
You are in my thoughts.
And such.
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