"One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."

Lights were too bright last week. And sounds. They were sharp, piercing, stabbing at my eardrums. A virus took my feet out from under me and forced me to stay still. Bedrest reminded me of before times, when ladies would lounge for days, lackluster and laudanum, fanning and staring. There is a certain elegance to resigning yourself to nothing; the days go in, they go out, buses go by, children come and go from school, but there you lie, separate.

And bored. I can confirm there is such a thing as too much television. I'm on hiatus. I don't know--time lying there doing nothing can't help but be reflective and I was forced to face the things I have let become dusty: the scientific manuscript I wanted to publish, my violin, even a half knit hat. A fever breaking and rejuvenation is euphoric.

One of my decisions? I need to go on a trip. And this may be a result of watching too many Jane Austen movies last week, or from my contemplation of laudanum, but I'd like to go to a cottage somewhere misty and chilly, requiring multiple layers and scarves, in a small town with two pubs and lots of trails for walking. I'm thinking Ireland, maybe the UK, maybe soon.