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An English Breakfast, taken early

This morning found my heaps on the couch, drinking an english breakfast, reading "Joseph and His Brothers" to the background hum of Radio-Canada Chaine-1, and setting to one side various care-worn gifts to dukkha and insomnia for a spell. Currently, I'm in volume III, recording the story of Joseph's ascent in the household of Petepre, and his first runnings-afoul of the house of Amun-Re.

The heaps of me woke quite a bit earlier than normal - prompted in part by a still precocious prostate, and partly due to accumulated worries over Ania and other matters; the girl seems bent on not letting me know if she's alive or dead, and what she's led me into. And J. is playing cruel games, prompted by her disturbed feelings, and a desire to cut me as deeply as possible in vengeance for hurting her. Strange the things we do to salvage a sense of our egos; as if any amount of hurting others will make us more real, and less deluded in our attachment to our illusions of control. Vincent related to me that she "has weird break-ups with people."

V. and Prof. Emberley are dying by stages, by immediate reckoning; one by cancer, the other by Lewy body dementia. I'm waiting for the results of a PSA test myself; I must say that it would have been delightful if the doctor had offered a requisition some months ago, without all of the other leaping-hoops.

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