We just spent a week in Paris. We are still adjusting to Everett. Something like the Paris Blues. The past two days I have been having vertigo and an upset stomach. It's either a bug from Iceland or something else. Disorientation. Combined with my crumbling hip that makes a good night's sleep elusive as a compassionate Republican. It was so American that we spent our time in the City of Light in perpetual motion, afraid of wasting our time, not meeting our production quota, avoiding the protesters who were protesting the retirement age being raised from sixty to sixty-two. Mine is already sixty-six. Could go higher. My head is spinning. I need more time to process. I need to start writing again, something I've let slide and something I miss terribly. I am also going to see the surgeon on four October. I must do something, even if I am not old. A new hip could be my sixty birthday present to my self. I'm tired. I'd eat, but I'm not hungry...
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