If I needed some karmic explanation for my last 48 hours, I got it when I woke up this afternoon. Maybe it was insufficient oxygen, too much mucus in the sinus and lungs, or a bad batch of Sudafed and Vicks, but something was up. The body was lying flat and coughing up a storm, but the brain was running overclocked on some problem unknown. If you're inclined to believe in such things, maybe my brain was picking up a bad broadcast from Colorado.
Ever since I went into my first used book store, I've had this image of an author who finds his own works in the remainders, takes them all home, and lights them on fire. In the accounts today, I found a picture of Hunter S. Thompson shooting his own typewriter. You do have to earn the right to destroy what you've created, and somehow I have to think Hunter figured he had earned the right to shoot his own typewriter.