In assuming sleep, I dreamed about a tour of Hollywood's ranked restaurants, overhearing a gal coming back for a second crack at the andouille, whose best morsels she lost to great regret in a bout with colitis before.
Woke with a hand that wouldn't move, folded at the wrist like a limp glove. If it's asleep, it tingles; now there's none. The thought went: stroke? And with clinician's distance, I lifted the right with the left. Gravity flopped it down. Twice that failed, but -- miracle! -- with the third, it rose.