Am sitting here toward 8—nothing very new—Am so-so, heavy-headed feeling & the same old insuperable inertia—was out this afternoon in the wheel chair, the sun half-out in starts & rather cool—Supper of rice & mutton stew—I continue my non-mid-day meal or dinner—appetite fair—as I sit here my nurse Warren is down stairs practising on his fiddle—
Sunday 3 p m—Nothing amiss today—but dull dark rainy weather—am pottering over an article prose essay "Old Poets—and other Things," probably to be offer'd to N[orth] A[merican] Review—as they have ask'd me to write something for them—bowel action—had a good currying two hours ago—breakfast oysters, toast & tea—y'r letters rec'd—am floating along carried idly, by the momentum of things I suppose—stupidity may be a strong word but it suggests if not describes my cond'n these times—
Walt Whitman