Visiting George A., also known as Stormy, in the hospital. Listless, wasting away, he lies in the bed all day. Does nothing. Looks out the window. He's glad of the visit, of gifts, of company but only briefly, after his cigarette he's done. The nurses say physically he's fine, but - no. No one is fine lying in bed 24 hours a day.
These are his latest scrolls.
"Cave home fur nurses..."
He's stopped calling himself Stormy, it's now "George", as if his life on was his stage and having left the stage he's free (or forced) to use his real name. But these are small, amusing, and producing 3 in 3 days where he used to produce dozens a day - while out and active, well, every sign is bad. The extended care home for him, I'm not betting he'll make it. He's not even trying.