116. The stupid heart always has hope.

And the languid pull of toska.

I awoke this morning, on New Year’s Day 2024, from one of those deep sleeps that makes you wonder if you ever really sleep at all. I have been sick for the better part of the holiday season, in every sense of the word—physically sick, heartsick, lovesick, grief sick, job sick—and most of my nights have been fitful, either because of a hacking cough or t…