Convalescence
If prose is a cup of coffee, poetry is a shot of espresso. It's all the good stuff in one gulp. Considering our modern attention spans, I'm surprised it isn't more popular.
I've recently discovered Georg Trakl. He was a tortured man (no surprise for a poet) whose "vision of existence was marked both by courage and despair." I learned that Wittgenstein was a patron of his, closing a neat little circle around two of my more respectable pastimes.
I speak about as much German as JFK did that one time in West Berlin, so I'm relying on Alexander Stillmark's excellent translation. This is poetry for grey, autumn evenings. Shattered forests and haunted battlefields. His verse reflects the spiritual dissolution of the Great War era.
I'm supposed to be working, but I'm reading (and writing) instead, occasionally bumping the mouse to keep Teams active. I'm feeling much better today. Not at 100%, but more like a person than I have in a week.
The sun is out. After this, I'll go out back and lie in the grass for a while, let the light burn my skin after so many days convalescing in the dark. To feel the wind and breathe without coughing.