What is this? My hand?

 

It's 46 degrees on this fine October morning. I had to wrestle the primitive boiler thing that lives in the basement to get the radiators to alter the climate. I'm fine now. There are colder temps on the horizon. By then I will have unpacked many fleecy things. Yes.

I want to say more, but what can I tell you about plans that haven't yet come to fruition? My piano is out of tune. I tried to play things but forgot what the notes mean. Then my muscle memory coughed up some Beethoven, a little Mozart, and some progression that's been in the recesses of my brain since I was six years old. During the bad time...the Facebook time...I was a stroke victim. Now I'm learning how to do the things again. Put spoon to mouth. Make fingers wrap around pen. Form letters. Make fingers play something on instrument. Form sentences. Eat green jello-o and await progress therapy.