Work on my novel scheduled for today has been pre-empted by a migraine. Not in active pain any more, but meds make me feel like wet straw. Will muster up the endurance to attempt research in another hour or two. Lots of that to move forward with.
I need to learn about the anthropology and ecology of the Congo--but not only the much-documented river basin. No, I am setting a lot of this book's action in the highlands to the east; still equatorial, but much different landscape. And the peoples that once lived there, where have they gone? What are their stories? I care. I care more than I care about most things at the moment. Migraine and or meds I take for them promote apathy. And napathy.
Back to bed now.