It's a problem--a damn problem--whether to walk fast and get home quick,
or walk slow and sort of rest. I try to go fast, and have the sense of
lifting my legs, not with the muscles, but with something else. I shake
my head to get it clearer. One bowl of oatmeal. Coffee. "I feel all
right." I get up and am conscious of walking home quietly and evenly,
without any further worry about the difficulty of lifting my feet. "The
long turns, they're not so bad," I say out loud, and stumble the same
second on the stairs. I get up, angry, and with my feet stinging with
pain. Old thought comes back: "Only seven to eight hours sleep. Bed.
Quick." I push into my room--the sun is all over my bed. Pull the
curtain; shut out a little. Take off my shoes. It's hard work trying to
be careful about it, and it's darn painful when I'm not careful. Sit on
the bed, lift up my feet. Feel burning all over; wonder if I'll ever
sleep. Sleep.