All Days Could Be These Days

My right sleeve is streaked with brown and smells of feces. I am sitting in a rocker in the corner of a client's bedroom, fighting off the lightheadedness caused by excessive caffeine consumption and the stifling proximity of a hyperactive kerosene lamp, scribbling away on an index card. (I'm always scribbling on index cards now. That, or scraps of paper; the back of receipts from Burger King make wonderful scratch sheets.) The black gel pen around which I've curled my fingers is dying.

After the adrenaline explosion - running, sounding invisible sirens (here come the drums, here come the drums), infant resuscitation... and poop, lots of poop - there is the exhaustion that sets into the bones and refuses to let go.

"Is it bad," said Amy to the Doctor, "that I've really missed this?"

It's back to work once again; a pity that my short-lived vacation did nothing to whet my desire to return. But choices are choices. If there's one thing I don't mind it's the running.

"Yes," the Doctor replied. "It is."

A proper blog post is awaiting an attack of red ink, now that my incoherent brain has mumbled it out onto blank index cards at two in the morning. After writing the music for "Occupation",  I am finding that the question is not "In the end will it be all right" but "In the end will it have been worth it?"

Will it?