No more port, please. No more saccharine sweet; no more affections for diversion, the way I escape my stress.

Today, I lay on my bed recovering from over-exertion. I suppose it to be that: the grinding clench of muscles hearing trouble arrive. They stiffen in time to the punches of life; they shield in guttural knots. Which is why I was lying there, unable to move, lying as I listened to the hail-beat anger of Genesis.

Do you suppose it would be horrible to think of my funeral? I want to know what they say, refrains of the eulogy roughly processing. What of the things I have done, deeds at the heart of twenty-four years? How safe to envision a death as young as I am; how more sure of a tragedy, the things un-accomplished.

But it is only fatigue I feel. Tired, unwell. Too much stress in my world and I let eat at my soul. Tomorrow will be better if I give myself pause. And then, to another unforeseen victory.