a quiet room

I'm writing this in the library, in the "quiet" room.  People have difficulty with this, I notice.  They whisper in voices that, as a background hiss, are more interruptive than out-loud speech.  They rustle newspapers. They're not aware that, coming and going, they're noise-making machines.

Right now, I'm craving silence, rest, peace.  A month or so by an ocean, my only obligations to write, walk, write -- a fantasy.

I'm here.  Most of the time, with Rich, who now that the steroids have worn off is realizing he really does need rest more than work, and lots of food (emphasis on sweet re-charges), and trying to make sense of itchy rashes and pops in his neck and extremity pain.

So I listen, I shop, I cook, and try to re-charge.  Rich's job is harder, and there's no fantasy to follow.

Candace