rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Eight, Day Thirty-Seven

Saturday night I heated some leftover chili for dinner, and added a bit of extra hot sauce to make it a bit tastier, a mistake. It brought on the worst indigestion I've had in years, and I've had quite a bit of that recently. Nothing would rid me of it, so I went to bed and finally got to sleep, but woke several times feeling miserable. I ended up sleeping off and on the entire night, and finally rose in the gray dawn and gingerly began feeding myself bland things. The indigestion has not returned but it still feels like it might, so I'll have to be careful all day. More stuff will be leaving my diet, it appears. It's going to get terribly dull if this keeps up (which it probably will.) But I'm glad that that night is over. I hope not to have another like it anytime soon. Oh, age, you thug.

Sunday Verse

Proud Songster

by Thomas Hardy

The thrushes sing as the sun is going,
And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,
And as it gets dark loud nightingales
       In bushes
Pipe, as they can when April wears,
   As if all Time were theirs.

These are brand new birds of twelvemonths' growing,
Which a year ago, or less than twain,
No finches were, nor nightingales,
       Nor thrushes,
But only particles of grain,
   And earth, and air, and rain.