I spent most of the day in bed today, quite literally, recovering from the strange allergic reaction I had yesterday. It was relaxing and I tried to ignore the fact that I felt incredibly lazy. But now it’s 11:11 PM and I am having difficulty getting off to sleep.
I finished reading I. Asimov a little while ago. I think that each time I read it (14 times now) I secretly keep hoping the ending will change, that Asimov will not have died back on April 6, 1992, that perhaps I have fallen into some alternate universe where he is still writing today, at the ripe old age of 88 (And why not? Jack Williamson did it; Frederick Pohl is doing it; Ray Bradbury, also born in 1920, is still going strong.)
Yesterday marked the beginning of my 13th year keeping a diary of some kind. From 1996-2005, I kept it in paper diary books. Since 2006, this journal makes up my diary. Twelve years is a significant milestone at this time in one respect: one third of my life has been recorded “on paper”. Granted, to most people, it is of little interest, but I enjoy being able to turn to a page and see what it was I was doing one or two or ten years ago today.
Back to work tomorrow morning.