Where did I get this back, the wounded lower one, wow. Not wounded but strained, not strained but what deep orbit shines from a bruise? I did sit down to play the piano the other day. Did piano make pain? Let's hear it for playin' pain in the deep center, beyond left and right. Just as professional drivers, the taxis and semis, can be trusted to drive safely and efficiently, I've been a critter long through the neck and back and, therefore, not prone to injury to such a vital span. But I tell you, somehow in twenty-four hours I grew a derange of motion I'll have to devote several days to releasing. How slowly? The person ahead of me holding the door gave up and went inside.
And this just in, three days later:
It was the damn rowing machine. Ever since I got it into my head that we tall men tend to make good rowers, if we can harness the furthest reaches of our power stroke (our purr stroke, we call it, when it works), all it takes is two minutes. The deep power, as if pissed about sporadic access, wrecks everything. A week later, the transition from seated to standing still takes care.