I am blessed with perpetual well-being

Ice forms on a river and the water underneath keeps moving at roughly the rate it did in August, entirely uninterested in the weather up top.

Nobody feels well continuously. Weeks go badly, bodies get ill, grief turns up and stays a while. Something can still be running under all of it: the systems that keep working without instruction, the capacity to be moved by something small, the plain fact that you're here reading a sentence about it.

Frozen on top is not the same as stopped. It has never once been the same as stopped.