Notebooks that used to be filled, cover to cover, with dense sentences, bricks of prose and bales of verse, are now paved over with shorthand notes and checklists. A month without writing is like a month without sleep: each fever dream day bleeds into every restless night. An unquiet body: muscles that are disobedient and overworked; bones that waver and threaten to crack; weighty, cumbersome organs. What’s become of that steady diet of solitude and ninety pound white? And what of the record collection that called to me as if from a medicine cabinet? What became of the old habits, and why didn’t I anticipate missing an addiction so much?

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