Ravings.

My arm is not broken. It feels fine now.

I am tired all the time, no matter how much or how little sleep I get. Is it the medication? Who knows.

"That's just how it was in our family. Get through the bad thing, survive until the next one, and then quietly get through that one too. Put it away and don't think about it." "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry too," I say, and there is no anger in my voice.

I have to sleep. I have to. I don't know why I can't.

I feel nauseated. I feel like--

I'm dying dying dying--

Or something like that.