Spatters of rain intermittently rattle against our windows, the last of the tropical storm blowing itself out farther south and inland. I can see the wind moving constantly in the sunflowers in the small yard on the other side of the duplex, teal-blue solar lightbulbs swaying among the heavy yellow heads. A few nights ago I told
spatch that the air smelled like the tropical forest at the Franklin Park Zoo: it still does, green and humid. I would enjoy it more if I were not so tired. I am feeling more mentally washed out than I have in months, which is saying something. All of the things I am staying on top of are the enervating ones. I am not a person who naps healthily and I have been falling asleep in the evenings as if stunned. If I was going to spend the first half of this month so ill that my life would have gone on hold if I'd had any license to stop moving without drowning instantly, I really feel I should have been owed an official convalescence. I don't think that has been an option in this country in my lifetime.
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