The Writer Philosophizes

I’ve taken the chance and given the man on the couch some Tylenol. Hopefully, it’ll bring down his fever. Now, I tell you, it’s not easy to get a pill down a sleeping person’s throat.

Not to mention he nearly bit off my fingers in the process. Good Mama was a nurse, and I’ve learned quite a few things from her. I managed, somehow. I always do.

It’s silent again, save the sound of Scooter’s absolutely bulldozer purring. One of these days, his voice will just stick like that. The permanently purring cat. Quite a queer idea, actually.

The man seems to be having dreams; I don’t think they’re good ones, judging by all the tossing and the turning he’s been doing.

I rarely dream. I might have two or three of them, but they’ll be totally random or simply euphoric.

The idea of euphoria is completely shattered once I awaken again, so the good dreams never leave me fulfilled.

Lately, I’ve been quite selfish. I let father leave, even if he wanted to take me back to Ireland.

Did I think about how he felt?

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