Being Ill Like This Combines

The Disparity Between What People Said Life Was And What I Knew It To Be Unnerved Me At Times, But I Swore That Nothing Would Ever Make Me Say Life Should Be Anything.

I Can't Change The Past, And I Don't Think I Would. I Don't Expect To Be Understood. I Like What I've Written, The Stories And Two Novels. If I Had To Give Up What I've Written In Order To Be Clear Of This Disease, I Wouldn't Do It.

I Awake With A Not Entirely Sickened Knowledge That I Am Merely Young Again And In A Funny Way At Peace, An Observer Who Is Aware Of Time's Chariot, Aware That Some Metamorphosis Has Occurred.

I Am Sensible Of The Velocity Of The Moments, And Entering That Part Of My Head Alert To The Motion Of The World I Am Aware That Life Was Never Perfect, Never Absolute. This Bestows Contentment, Even A Fearlessness.

In Our Opposed Forms Of Loneliness And Self-recognition And Recognition Of The Other, We Touched Each Other Often As We Spoke; And On Shore In Explorations Of The Past, We Strolled With Our Arms Linked.