Every day seems
to be a new challenge. I struggle to
sleep more than three hours a night, I lose use of my right arm, I cannot
swallow solids, and my vision goes all whack on me.
I expected to be
dead this past April or May. Yet I still
go out and run five miles, albeit exceedingly slow, almost daily, I talk to my
loved ones, I am still plowing through my art history books, and I am still
making artwork.
I am doing
fantastic for a dead man.
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