I just took my walk and it felt okay. I spent most of the day feeling like my right lung is hollowing out. It’s not reassuring. But at the moment I don’t feel so bad, and I didn’t even notice anything wrong with my right lung while on my brisk walk. I feel the infection is creeping to reach my left lung. But for tonight I’m trying to enjoy what life I have left. Maybe I’ll feel like painting this evening, maybe throw out the dirty mop water and rinse the bucket. Probably read true crime. I feel too glum and numb to paint right now, or to do anything but peruse Solo and true crime. I have a counselling session in the morning, and then the writers’ group happens in the afternoon but I doubt I’ll go, especially if my lung feels shitty and it probably will. I’m going to get my heart tested on Friday, with electrodes and physical exercise. I know I have a very slow heart rate, except when I’m painting Morrissey’s eyes, which reminds me, to imagine it’s as important as surgery to get it right, to see if that outlook will steady my fingers, since my nervous system panics when painting his eyes, as if it really were surgery and I don’t know why I panic and spasm, but I’m hoping that thinking that what I’m doing is as important as if I were performing surgery on Morrissey’s eyes, I will sober up and become keenly steady. I shall see, when I dare to paint again. Hopefully this evening or tonight. There’s little that would make me happier than to continue to like Morrissey At Grantley Hall. The only thing better is the real thing, I know, real arms around me, real eyes to check out and love. It’s as if Morrissey were there behind the painting, saying “How dare you paint my eyes!”.