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A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.

– Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

…or I might just be ill.  Perhaps Hawthorne is correct–perhaps my spiritual past has sickened my physical present–or perhaps I just caught an illness from one of my cohorts at the inn last weekend.  Dear Reader, I shall not disturb you with the details, but I have been ill this week.

This week I have heard cries of “That was the last of the paper towels!  Barricade him into the kitchen!” and “Quick, he’s at the door!  Grab a bag!” and “Oh, no! Open a window, and I’ll get the spray!”

I understand that little illnesses like this come and go, but I do regret one loss from this illness.  Man and woman have decided that my bed is destroyed and that it cannot be restored to its former glory.  “We’ll get you a new one at PetSmart this weekend,” they say.  I miss my bed.  Here it is when it was in its original, pristine condition:

The smells of deodorizing chemicals invade my senses before they drift out the windows and into the chill November air.  I go through periods of time when I feel glorious, with not a care in the world, but then my body reminds me that I may not ignore its sickly impulses.

I will write again when this melancholy mood lifts–perhaps when I am given my new bed.  Until my insides stop their terrible complaints, I am confined to the kitchen and dining room (“not on the rug–not again!” they say).  I miss my nice bed.

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