I am writing as I watch my dog lie in the heat. Not quite sunny, but at least it's not the weird unsummery weather that plagued Ireland all June, sticky-drizzly-wet and so cold, I made a hot-water bottle every night. Anyways I have finally gotten over the lethargy of the past few days, days of feeling so tired, I could not keep my eyes open. Steroids, man.

While walking Sam around the town this morning, I was stopped several times by people asking how I was. Gah!

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I feel detached from people these days, interacting with them as if through a plastic bubble. The psychic aftereffects of illness and isolation, I guess. I'm feeling Kafka, writing in his diary on the 1st of July in 1913: "The wish for an unthinking, reckless solitude. To be face to face only with myself."

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