December 13. Nonsensical.

Now let me write something nonsensical. This story takes the form of a travel account where it should be an account of the hopeful truth behind a playing face. You know how much I treasure the simple receipts I get from the pharmacies, hospitals, and groceries where I am buying my aid? I cherish it like a stock broker cherishes his skyrocketing virtual papers, or like a niggard his grocery cart penny. It’s nice to trick our human psychology of reciprocal giving, and so enabling ourselves to become a little bit better. Oh, but that is sensical. I should think harder. The world is a nasty place, I see terrible injuries today on the sunny streets of downtown Nairobi, they are just lying there, next to the vociferous street preacher, with dirty ochre tinged bandages and awkward clamps on their bones, awaiting the mercy of the public. I am not the public.

Still, this does make sense. It is not easy to lose your senses. Maybe I can do it tomorrow.

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