Among the books I have read lately are a few about people who are bedridden. One of them was about a woman who was mysteriously ill, another about one who merely wanted attention, and a third about a man who lay dying, looking back on his life.

All of the people in these books spun a rich life inside their heads that made the time alone pass quickly. Days flew by as they reminisced about long-ago luncheons with their friends (every sip of champagne remembered, every morsel of food); days spent in the arms of lovers, or simply the butterflies they chased. Their inner lives were absolutely fascinating.

I am very glad that I am not bedridden. Because I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, so I would simply be forced to lie there, staring at the ceiling.

My God, what time is it?  

I am going to insist that they put a TV in here.  

Let’s see. My high school years. Didn’t make the cheerleading squad. No date for prom. That’s about it for high school.

College? Not much. Oh, yeah. That guy with the beard. What was his name? Bob? Dave? 

The kids. Loved those girls. Which one was it that had the lisp? Don’t remember. I recall we didn’t have many birthday parties.

Marriage. Happy. Most of the time. Yup. Oh, yes. The accordion.

What time is it? 

I am going to have to insist that they put a TV in here. 

I am not planning to write a memoir, either. 

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