There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.

—Henry David Thoreau

In the cocoon with a flashlight. Outside of it all, I hear the preschooler testing his dad, house finches colonizing the trees (since 5:00 a.m.), the dog having his say, some animal scratching at the bedroom door, making the tiny bell attached to its collar sing. This I know: the lawn is mowed at last, sun is a focused summer lens, the novel The Descendants is far better than the movie, strangers are following me on Pinterest, a manuscript tucked into the memory stick in the drawer of my nightstand has the pipes of a foghorn, things buzz and just as I’m nodding off into blackness, the aroma of cat pee wafts from the bedroom closet because I failed to close certain doors in a timely manner. Yes: metaphors are buried in fathoms beyond my powers of exploration. Sad, this. Yes: not even the cocoon blots thought. I repeat: there’s gold beneath that sneeze, that groan. I mean good. I mean, whatever those early transcendentalists offered:

I’ll take it.