The hallucinations have stopped. The coughing fits have begun. I was forced from my cozy bed this morning by them, down the stairway and into two big mugs of tea. More of that to follow. I have things to get done this weekend, dammit.
Today is the birthday of both J.S. Bach and Modest Mussorgsky (or however one wants to spell it). That's pretty weird. I don't really know classical music, but I do love Bach, especially the Brandenburg Concertos, which I realize is overdone to death, but I just don't care. I still love them. I also love Pictures at an Exhibition - in particular, the 1950s Sofia concert performance by Sviatislav Richter, which crackles and zaps and gets silly and profound. Bach is 324, Mussorgsky is 170. Maybe we'll bake them a cake!
That's funny, he doesn't look a day over 167.
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