It really does feel like it. My brain feels like a giant cotton ball that somebody stuck into my scull, for the time while my actual brain, the friend whom I know longest, is out for a thorough cleaning or something. Wash, rinse, spin? My thoughts are not very organized as it is, but the cotton ball just does not do as good of a job as my original, sly less bleached matter did.
I did not recognize myself in the mirror last night. There are large mirrors where I looked. There was a man staring back at me, who looked as if he were somehow related to me, but he was definitely not me. I tried to calculate the years. Did another seven pass? 7,14,21,28... 35... no, not yet... so what the heck is going on?
A cotton ball is soft and certainly well wired, but please, if you come across the ticket from the cleaners, please let me know where I left my brain.
I might need to read some Oliver Sacks again, just come to terms with what is going on up here on my top floor.
Good morning.

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This page contains a single entry by Witold published on July 1, 2003 9:23 AM.

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