I feel like I’ve been writing this long enough to make some overarching statement about how time passes here – either quickly or slowly. It’s either a statement like that or jump into the immediate present, which I hate to do – I love to read the history of the world, but don’t feel like reading the newspaper. I suppose it’s an eventuality, though. Even as an attempt to stall, I can’t do it, talk about time here, because it’s both fast and slow. The hours spent in the hot sunlight, or in the damp heat of the shade seem to drag out like a runaway kite caught in an updraft. The seconds tick by in classes like a tense murderer waiting for an execution stay. The nights, which seem like they would be filled with lonely, endless hours, they pass quickly in a feverish haze. I have strange, exotic dreams, but they sped by. Maybe they’ve got someplace better to be instead of inside my head.

I wish I did.

I don’t, really. That’s why I’m here in the first place. Everyone knows this is a possibility – most struggle to avoid it. I barely put up a fight. Maybe that’s sad. Maybe it’s just who I am. I don’t really know, and it’s hard to strive for any self-analysis with a temperature that meanders up and down. Thinking makes my head hurt.

Writing makes it a little better, but I’m not really sure if the words are really coming out right. If anyone ever reads this it might seem a little jumbled. Being sick makes your thoughts jump around. I read this story once by a dead writer, Vonnegut was his name, I think, called “Harrison Bergeron.” It was about this futuristic society that was so in love with making everyone equal that they would give all the gifted people handicaps – stuff like weights that hung on strong people to weigh them down and earpieces that beeped in the ears of smart people once a minute to interrupt their thoughts and send them in a different direction. Being sick is kind of like those beeps – it makes your thoughts just jump around. So is debt, I guess.