So, I should note, the extraordinary Greg Knauss is writing again. His [terrific]( "in both senses of the word") novel-in-progress is a dark rumination on the concepts of disability and aging and mortality, and perhaps that’s why I was reluctant to link to it. I’ve been contemplating the same topics of late, though unfortunately not with the same clarity or eloquence, and I suspect some of my hesitance in confronting those thoughts echoed back to me is due to their author; it is especially cutting to hear this brooding in the voice of a profoundly talented writer whom I have only previously known as a source of ceaseless mirth.

As ever, I do things on my own scale. Facing mortality? Well, I have a cold, and colds make me moody. Looking back over my bitchiness the last few days and weeks, even as evidenced somewhat in the unusually meanspirited tone of this page lately, it would seem that the mind’s output gives voice to its contents, or discontents, whether we intend it to or not.

There’s more to all of this, I suspect…