Treach'rous Phantoms in the Mist delude

Five days have past; five mornings, with the length of five deep nights, and again I cast another message to float upon the waters of the vast, lonely expanse of the internet.

Five mornings spent with Wilbur, struggling over texts, wondering if one lifetime is enough to train him for a single decent conversation. At least I’ve spent five afternoons with Ruthie, rejoicing in her newfound willingness to speak. Things are still uneasy between us: I wonder if she’ll ever speak in anything other than a loopy gait, or if she’ll ever again reduce the dosage of her meds to a level that allows for some form of coherence.

I installed a site meter on my blog, then removed it when I found how few people came to visit. There was always a hope that others were hovering in the wings, silently sympathizing with my sentimental wanderings; I was foolish to submit that hope to empirical testing. One needn’t cite Dr. Johnson to realize that hope is hope precisely because it’s ephemeral. Now, driven to an equally vaporous despair, I wonder if I should quietly shut the doors on this little industrious cottage. I might rather retire to my study to write my memoirs, every third thought being of the death of the author. Mr. Anonymous, I think I may finally have come to see your point. I’m just not sure I’m into it.