Ah, I think I’m over the pneumonia. I’m glad I didn’t have one of those awful, long, drawn-out cases. Hannah still won’t let me leave my bed though, as per her particular brand of care. Also, I don’t think she’s gone home since she found me on the patio, an issue I will have to rectify as soon as I can get out of this bed and reassert dominance over my home. None may trespass. Not even the Tree Walker.
I started reading Laura’s book again. It’s a shame that it never got the recognition it deserved. A riveting plot, well-developed characters and delicious literary references that are more significant than padding but not so important that an understanding of the past three millenia of literature is needed to read the book, though it certainly makes it all the richer.
You know, I’ve met a lot of great writers in my time, published and unpublished, but only a select few stick in my mind; a charming priest by the name of Ed, a former drug user called Terrence who came out of rehab, wrote a stellar novel, then committed suicide a few weeks after it flopped, and Laura. She sticks in my mind as a writer as much as a lover and wife. I really do love her work. I really did love her. But I shouldn’t have. My love killed her. I think he poisons people, makes their emotions toxic and infectious. He poisoned the well of my being and when Laura drank from it…it was only a matter of time before the blackness in my soul ate her up inside.
I make timebombs of people.