Journal, November 27, 1977 AM

<I’m sitting on the edge of the bed watching Sofia sleep.> A minute ago she was making faces like a child before a mirror, or a person illustrating how a third party looked in the situation being described. She did it again. I suppose she’s dreaming. She remembers her dreams much more frequently than I do.

My cold had me down yesterday, but I feel good this morning. It certainly is misery when you feel so rotten that you don’t want to do anything but loaf around. You can’t sleep. If you could it wouldn’t be misery! Yet you feel disgusted with yourself because you aren’t doing anything but loaf.

Friday the money order I’d asked Mom to send finally got here. The first time she sent it, it got lost or stolen in the mail, so this is a new copy of the money order. Mom calmly noted that she had to sign a bond in case I cashed both money orders. That’s Mom, she leaves you wondering if she distrusts you, or just was being very economical with words.

<I can’t seem to get Sofia interested in helping make a list of what we should send by airfreight and what we’ll put in the two suitcases we can take with us.> It’s not really important, just my passion to not leave things for the last minute. Maybe we should just wait ‘til next weekend, throw everything in the box, make a list and send it off.

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