There is no good news to report. It's just more of the long, slow grind. I take every day as it comes, and search for blessings to keep my spirits. I usually find solitude in my own monkish way.
Cezanne painted onions with sprouts. I believe he painted the onions as he saw them: as onions grew slowly, he painted their progress. My regression is much the same: no one who stays around me a lot sees the slip. However, if the curious reader observes me over years, my onions grow sprouts. All I can do anymore is follow around those sprouts with a pen that never seems as ready as it was yesterday.