August.
Seventeen days until I am to leave the default world and venture into a dream city made up of swirling dust storms and long sleepless nights, explosions, the ghostly glow of variegated electromagnetic radiation, wonder, friendship. That is, of course, if my spine allows. The whole trip has been thrown into question because of this injury. I will need to have a mattress to sleep on, the transport of which will be cumbersome, its placement into a tent, dubious. I am told where there is a will there is a way, so I will hold onto my hopes. It seems possible to attend and dance with restraint and caution, but in honesty, the whole notion seems slightly less appealing in this light. I attend to taste of abandon, intemperance, of saturnalia. I am aging though, so perhaps this will be valuable practice, a chance to experience life through older eyes - to glimpse the future.
There's nothing like a spinal fracture to make you feel old and deca(y)dent.
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