A very rough night — but I did intercept the pass; and if only the field were not so far below, I could have run to the goal line, instead of laboriously treading air until my much delayed, unnoticed, unheralded arrival. Such are the rewards of greatness. More disturbing, however, was the haunted figure intent on changing faces, the last of which was the full moon. Change your face, I cried, having already forgotten the original. Upon waking I got up from bed, removed several pounds of cotton from my mouth, and went to the kitchen for some water. The clock, which seldom speaks, said, Two-thirty. Then it looked helplessly, apologetically at its hands. It’s not your fault, I said. The refrigerator gurgled. A few light raindrops pattered on the vent above the stove. Having a sense of humor, I went back to bed. I rode my old farm bicycle until four — at least that is my guess, judging by the tired muscles in my thighs. The kitchen again. The clock. The fresh hot coffee. The joy — like the air, like love, always present, even if this should prove to be my dying day.
December 30, 2020
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