Dear Reader – First the bad snooze… Thoughtful Man remains a resident of ICU and he’s mostly sedated…

*Probably, Clicky… /wan smile… Although when it comes to the art of sleeping, Popstar really is in a class of her own… /rolls eyes*

The good snooze is that the swelling is going down, so he is off the ventilator and starting to surface. Though the bad snooze is he suffered some delirium… flailing about, trying to pull out tubes…

*Don mitts? Yes but it took three of them to do it. Well, as you know, Click, he’s a big man*

Still the good snooze was that yesterday he was much calmer and medics were able to remove the protection from his hands. Now we’re waiting for the results of today’s scan…

*Not sure about the wolves, there, Clicky – the nursing staff have been superb… But the waiting… /sigh…*

Today I watched a film that Thoughtful Man had gotten for me before he was taken ill.

‘In Akron, Ohio, 24-year-old Joy and her five-year-old son Jack live in a squalid shed they call Room. They share a bed, toilet, bathtub, television, and rudimentary kitchen; the only window is a skylight. They are captives of a man they call Old Nick, Jack’s biological father, who abducted Joy seven years prior, and routinely rapes her while Jack sleeps in the closet. She tries to stay optimistic for her son, but is suffering malnutrition and is sometimes overcome with depression. She allows Jack to believe that only Room and its contents are “real,” and that the rest of the world exists only on television.’

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To be continued in a post yet to be named. Sew I will finish this one now with a Poe-M…

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

 

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?