I think of each day differently now - compartmentalized - hours and minutes - how many will fall into the category of some semblance of normal, how many may go off the rails? How much is too much activity - when will sleep come and take it away?
So I inhale the "good hours" - steep in their intoxicating vapours - cling to them for each moment that lasts - until it begins and some other feeling creeps in. Some sickness in the belly - some wave of fatigue rolling in like fog through my body. But my frame of reference is changing - exhaling that memory through those other times - clinging to it when the picture shifts - only hanging on to what was solid and good. What represents success is a loosely constructed picture - un-recognizable from a past that slips away until there is only this present - this collection of hours...minutes...passing.