I’m sorry to have to tell you he can’t post today. Of course I forgave him. He’s not even sure he did anything. If he did it wasn’t him, but a man zapped out of his mind.
LET HIM DREAM OF SAND AND SUN—OR AT LEAST VITAMIN DThe torture is still going on, but he’s doing it to himself. He breaks things and curses himself and wants to work all the time. He feels guilty about me, Sneeky, guys he met who are still stuck in jail, and people who paid to buy masks and whose money the government grabbed.
It’s healthy to get it all off his chest, but he is exhausted and damaged and he needs to heal. One of the ex-doctors says Blogula needs to spend a month at the beach in a country with no flu and no cops.
We'd need a time machine for that, so I persuaded him to take the day off.
He’s sleeping, which lasts about an hour at the most. I want to be there when he wakes up, so wish him well and I’ll sign off.
Best, Anna