Me (in snark) to doctor (in sandals), mere moments ago.
Under glare of mandatory medical fluorescence, surrounded by health concerns, re-re-xeroxed NYT health-related articles, helpful hints.

I am a Francophile, this much is true/vrai. However. I don't want to live - LIVE - a vrai Jerry Lewis and furthermore Chaplin moment by wrangling my limbs and attendant bags/sacs up and down the subway/le metro all the day/jour long with borrowed crutches angling out and about.
Mercury buckets/thanks... thanks for the ref, thanks for the memory, thanks for not tossing my western medicine-skepticizing self out of your swell office/bureau.

Equipment malfunction, left knee is still all peculiar and so tomorrow, not today, I go off to a knee specialist. I wonder about a person who only looks at knees all day.
No crutches, just a bunch of grad school readings to plow through in my bag, and a song in my heart.
The song.
A nice techno one You would really really like.
Off to Chelsea gallery to deliver the piece that was mis-delivered by post orifice, for the show that happens momentarily.

Momentary Love.