I don’t understand what dying is. Even as my symptoms intensify and more and more goes wrong. Maybe it is some kind of denial, the incredulity I feel. I feel this sharp honed suffering. But not where it goes. I think it would be better if I did feel the end and stopped trying to imagine foods I used to eat or clothes I used to wear or buildings I could pretend to retrofit as if I could live there. What is the point of all that now. Or the fight with Palgrave, or my hands or the downward spiral of the NHS. Do I really need to care about Trump or Brexit or demagoguery. I wish I could go home. But it seems impossible now. Lacking realism. I tried to say that to my brother. But all I did was upset him, provoke a pep talk. I wish I could give him what he wants from me. I’m used to doing some things so I keep doing them. Maybe thats what this is.
Lola in her crate. I keep pushing her off my lap.