A sickbed becomes a familiar paradox both the seat of comfort and of captivity. There is a familiarity with chronic illness. It becomes a part of you like an accent, a birthmark or blemish or a childhood scar that memory fails to predate. Soon enough the memory of good health begins to fade. You can still see yourself active and effective but you can no longer feel it. Memory fades just like youth and muscle tone. Your entire memory is metaphoric; like the vein blue color of a nursing home tattoo. Maintaining usefulness isn't as difficult as maintaining patience. I consume books as others may consume alcohol or heroin. We survive as best we can.