Words are flowing over the bridge of my nose in a cacophonous deluge. Having just finished the latest and last Harry Potter novel I am sufficiently satiated, balancing that against my ferocious appetite for heady podcasts and stacks of non-fiction. My only distraction is the kitchen below my academic retreat. The heat makes as useful a rational for nonphysical exertion as the cold, yet my waste now makes my newer fat man pants pinch.
My occasional life necessitated exertions, like a walk to a bus stop or moving a bit of furniture, has me each time in a near cardiac emergency, making me feel it is 'just a matter of time'. Just a matter of time, until I must choose between life in pain or a life in healthy living. Both are not appetizing, and my appetite is what all this is about.