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June 12, 2007
Hands hurt, ankle hurts. Feet balancing on shards of bricks but even that is not enough to cut through the fog of sleep. It takes hours more to wake up, days to put the damage into a tolerable state of existence. This isn't the way my life is supposed to go. Continual addition to the list of resentments for moments of stolen pleasure but there wasn't even any pleasure in black on the tally sheet. It is the latest irony that the cumulative pain comes not from aching in the places we used to play but in merely waking.