He'll save the Indian food for later and so this week my Sunday night won't smell like curry. He says he'll just share the mushrooms with me – because it's already fifty o'clock. It sure is. Every bit of me is tired and every hour of the last few days is sitting heavily between my shoulder blades and rubbing against my lower eyelids. It's good that lungs and hearts and livers keep on working even when the words get stuck in lumps of balled up tired and thoughts all start to sound like the gibberish of dream declarations.