i’m awake but my eyes do not open; so dry they’re glued together. i reach blind for my drops, splatter my sticky eyeballs, stumble to the kitchen. i said i’d walk today, but i know i can’t promise you anything. it’s morning, but the day is over. i’m hungry, but cannot eat; half an hour till food, then pills with food, plus an hour before i can have coffee; i’m supposed to quit, but decaf has become the thrill in my day. you make breakfast; you’ve given up on my morning hands, their drops and spills. i lift the blanket on our bed when suddenly you appear in our bedroom; we both know my back is already aching. i don’t argue these days. you set an alarm, count time before i can eat; i document yesterday. what did i have for lunch? i ask. we both can’t remember. you move my glass of water away from me as I type: a good day. no gluten, no dairy, no egg, no sesame, garlic, or onion; like a recipe, i document my day, my food, my pills, my body, reduci...