davidmacluna

Strange how the night moves, with Autumn closing in.

It's a race, at this point; on one hand, I had my first mini-stroke a few days ago. On the other, I bought a house not long ago.

Yeah. A freakin' house.

It's a Scooby-Doo mystery house, needs more ICU than TLC - I paid cash.

I'm about as broke as I've ever been.

So. I've got loved ones and a memory I want to leave behind; with luck, a good dose of it, I'll be able to finish up some writing and get it out there before I go.

Five years. That's all I ask. Two will do, if that's all I get. But five? Well, that would be nice.

Then again, I might hang in there for another twenty.

Anyway, I've recovered to some degree - my balance is still off, and it was mild enough not to need more than a few days bed rest, otherwise. And my balance may be just due to having a broken toe - that's another story, LOL.

Much like my house, I'm solid and functional on the outside; the interior is where the damage is.

Live fast, live for all you can, and build, build, build - 'cause you'll be gone before you know it, and there's nothing after this.

And Autumn? Autumn is upon me; my colors are changing, I slow and smile and remember more than I think ahead.

But yet, I still fight. More carefully, more craftilly, quiet and clever I twist the knife.

Update: Due to a few of you worrying excessively, I feel I should be clear: (A) I'm not dead yet, and (2) I'm mostly recovered, other than having to be careful when cornering or banking. It's much less severe than what Brett Michaels dealt with a few years ago - and, yeah, I do move more slowly and I'm greying, but Christ's Balls: I'm half a century old and have had a hell of a life. That said, I'll probably outlive all of you.*

*Comment intended for persons born in 1921.