Sometimes I feel good, then the weary quesness crawls through my digestive system. I feel as if I’m serving time in a cell; and in a way, I am walking through an endless maze and corridors of cells in my body. And I know I can’t console myself with any secure thought of health when chemo is doing drive-bys on my organs, or like a drone strike, suddenly doing more collateral damage than going after the suicide bomber. And I have to resign myself to doing time against infestation. Because I am infested. And have to curl up, with a hangover heart, and wait until the fleet of bombers pass over me. I’m a near miss.