The burn of the beam/For thirty-three days/Day after day/Of high-energy rays

Writing and doctoring/nursing are twin professions in my mind. It makes perfect sense that the two things I love most in this world are literature and medicine.

What a Sisyphean effort–both pursuits–spending all hours of the day and night fighting against entropy, suffering, and for your efforts being sometimes baffled at moments of transcendence. Making sense of this big mess of human stuff.

Poets, doctors, nurses, practice in the space between what we know as fact and the mystery of pretty much everything else. It’s a magical space, and for many people I think it must be where god lives. It’s where I keep cellular respiration and Leaves of Grass.

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