11) I have been moved into a shanty, one of a little community built upon a glacial deposit of stones. I am to convalesce here. My immune system must improve or the first dirty people I touch will be the end of me. Days are a more familiar period of night and sun. I have noticed three or four hours of muddy light, maybe darker, then a giving back of the morn. Indeed, the further North I've gone...well, every school child knows what happens. I am not much of a teacher, nor, while I'm at it, am I lifelong learner. I am erratic, errant, a mild-mannered traveler. I'll tell you something, I have been traveling the greater part of my life. Long trips are common to me. I do not have adventures. I have stirring bouts of fitness and poor direction. I think I am dyslexic. Dr. Creep could tell me if only I could get an damn appointment beyond the instant he appears during acute panic or when I am about to mortally fail. So, dyslexia, maybe? I can't self-diagnose. Just a word. And I really don't care.
By the way, I shall have occasion to describe my former life in detail later, but I will say this right now: things don't work when I am around.... I worry for my hosts.
Soft crying floats like ash out of a nearby shack and fails to move the thorny creosote. Or my heart. But such a beautiful sunset.