Quarter of two. It was too difficult to breathe, so I opened the windows to get a current of air going through the house. If the house can breathe then so can we. But there’s no breeze outside, no sign of life. Only the sounds of my neighbor’s air conditioning and a distant train horn. Inside, my mother’s alarm clock runs very loudly. I just took my Vraylar. Trying to sleep was futile without oxygen. It’s going to be a long summer. If only for a wind to come up and stir things to life, like the breath surrounding the sacred syllable Om. The Latin for spirit first meant wind. In Sanskrit: that One Thing, breathless, breathed by its own nature / Apart from it was nothing whatsoever. There are worse things than to be 53 years old, but I can imagine there are better things too. My heartbeat seems yoked to the purring of the electric clock. Is it all downhill from here? Sunrise, sunset, hot summer after summer on a steady decline. Unless something good happens that I can’t foresee. Something like a love affair, perhaps, or the greatest of good fortunes that I cannot guess. Still I hold out hope of something better than just a decline to old age alone and breathless…


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