encampment. It was a very difficult removal, and thick brambles blocked my egress.
I ended up getting cut up by the thorns pretty good, and one of the punctures brought MRSA with it.
There were many of those cheap fiber blankets with the decedent and around the camp.
Since my struggle with that terrible infection, I find that I can't stand the sight of those blankets.
The damn blankets cause me to have psychogenic movements (tics, &c.) -- they freak me out.
I started writing some free verse about these blankets that scare me, thinking that might help.
A few days ago I encountered one of these blankets abandoned on the sidewalk, and I captured
the fragile sheet of lint. Bare-handed and twitching!
My plan is to complete my poem, and to use the orphan blanket for a sculpture.
Writing and sculpting.
Gloved and twitching.
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