It's over, and not to engage in hyperbole out of bounds, but I'd dance in the Salvation Army rumble if I could in sheer relief. I like the Rosenbach, I think, but a live reading group with a curriculum structure was a mistake for me, given my pulmonary distress. The cheerful blonde from the Wednesday group said, strangely, that I was *brilliant* when I complained I could barely remember how to construct a thesis statement. Her name is Amy. Nice woman.
I am ill, dying from my own past tobacco usage, and now the glycerin vapor, perhaps. Chronic bronchitis is not an unbearable metaphysical condition so much as minute suffocation. I cannot hug Jerry goodbye; this saddens me.
I have traversed that Market Street corner so often, it feels like an augur's ill tempered omen, an encroachment of third world malaise, the sleaze of urban corruption. I do not wish to wind up semi conscious on a respirator.
After rest we shall return.
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