It’s taken almost all of February for this bronchitis to pass. It’s now four years in a row now that I get to spend the later half of winter wheezing.

A tiny gecko has taken up residence on my kitchen floor. He lives next to my wifi router. I don’t know his name yet— but I’ll find out once I’m over this illness.

Today was the first sick day I’ve taken in years. My 4th vaccine put me down like a dog. No grace or mercy in it. I managed to make it into work on Monday— but ice filled my legs and I barely managed to keep my concentration as the world slid past in a haze.

I made it home yesterday after sleeping the entire ride in the taxi. I climbed my stairs like a distracted marionette— got to my apartment and promptly fell into bed for the next three hours— work clothes and all.

I sat on my couch during my sick day— editing a friend’s story about living on the island and listened to Dan Carlin & Rick Rubin discuss the creative muse.

All the while I tried to balance rest with the restless impulse to be working on something worthy of artistic endeavor. That’s when I stumbled back to the to tugging at the threads around my own tapestry of creative belief.

So, I sat on my floor couch and pulled it apart strand by strand.