My body is slowly falling apart, and with it, everything else.
Nothing major quite yet, though; more like a foretaste found in the gallows
humour so typical of my native folk wisdom: When you are over forty
and you wake up in the morning with no pain, you are dead already.
But life is peachy, of course, because whether I thrive for or in spite of you,
I still need you, even if only for whatever the next folie à plusieurs would be.
After all, we are all in this bedlam together.
hidden pilcrow 