Another sick day, another day of sickness. Something refreshingly healthy about just being sick.
Meanwhile, I’ve heard that the cold outside is bitter. But as I’ve been indoors for nearly two days, I can only believe (or not) what I hear. Or I can go out and feel for myself.
It’s the same for everything, for all of life. If I wasn’t sick in bed, I would be left with only the concept of being sick in bed.
Or as Giacometti said about art: If you copy what you are seeing, you are producing a concept; if you paint (or draw or sculpt) your experience of what you are seeing, then it is not a concept, it is ungraspable, it is alive.