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It gets very tedious here—(I have now been in my room and bed five weeks)—I am sitting up in a rocker and get along better than you would think—I think upon the whole I am getting mending—slowly and faintly enough yet sort o' perceptibly—the trouble is sore and broken brain—the old nag gives out and it hurts to even go or draw at all—but there are some signs the last two days that slight ambles will justify themselves—even for old habit, if nothing else—

It was probably the sixth or seventh whack of my war paralysis, and a pretty severe one—the doctors looked glum—Bucke I think saved my life as he happened to be here—Shimmering, fluctuating since, probably gathering, recruiting, but as I now write I shall rally or partially rally—only every time lets me down a peg—I hear from you by Horace Traubel—I have an idea that O'Connor is a little better.

A rainy evening here, not at all hot, quiet—

Friday July 13—Just after noon—Ab't the same. I am sitting up, had a fair night—rose late, have eaten my breakfast—have rec'd a good letter from O'C—nothing very special or new—fine, clear, cool. Today my head thicks somewhat today. Love to you, dear friend. Love and remembrance to 'Sula, to July, too. I am on to 90th page Nov. Boughs—it will only make 20 more.

Walt Whitman