I have felt like I am scratching my way out of some cage. . Whether that is a cell made out of the newest pharmaceuticals, or a cage of disease, maybe even that pit of fear the cliche-makers always skitter about. . .
My sleep is so scattered, and now it is the end of August. Another season has passed by without any poetry; without an account on how Nature has touched the things and people and creatures I see, know, and love.
I am so sorry. I regret taking the "easy" choice in deciding to have no pain through medication. . . .
