Today I looked at my stacks and piles of books. I read some Robert Bly. I moved Harry Potter over so I could see what the big one under it was. I couldn't remember.
"Oh yeah." It's Emerson. I wanted to read Emerson after our last hike. The hike where I thought I might have asthma.
I was just anaerobically exercising. I want a buff heart.
I might be suffering from anxiety. Not so sure. I haven't been breathing much I guess, and I've been focusing on minutiae quite a bit lately. But that's because it makes me feel good and I can't remember what I was doing anyway. "It's the little things in life." But my mind! Sharp as a tick! Tack?
Who cares about another 40 CDs?
When I saw Emerson I felt good.
My stacks and piles of books, made me feel good.
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