By morning, the illness still lingers like dead weight across my chest: every time I move, it rattles through my rib cage and convulses past my eyelids, every breath is carefully considered. I wipe my calendar but not thoroughly enough, and the phone shakes me from my half-sleep. What fog can inhabit a mind, how fragile we are and microscopic events render us useless. But a life is not just grand gestures and milestones passed, a life is every little brick you lay, every short day you wade through.
Did you try to make yourself a better person today? Well alright then. This is your brick. Tomorrow you start anew.
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