I knew this place so well once.
I start seeing everything close to me as fragile, even when it isn't.
There are parts that are hard for me to read, and I wrote the thing. But it ends in the right place.
This is a terrible country in which to grow old. Perhaps they all are.
I have stuff I want to have written, and that means I have work to do.
Is my mind more organized? No, it is not!
Today, for now, I'm okay enough.
I've never learned what to do with rage.
I want to take something from this, some lesson, something useful.
When people have dementia, eventually you have to lie to them.