The son of a resident sits on the stage in the shelter playing his guitar. He leads some of the crowd in singing "Oseh Shalom Bimromav" ("He Who Makes Peace in Heaven") and "Kol Haolam Kulo" ("The World is a Narrow Bridge"). I resist singing for a while, then join in until we get the all-clear.

The segments of the day seem to happen in random order. I eat. I sleep. I go to the shelter. I go to the nurses' office. I do it all again, with the actions shuffled into a different order. And again.

At one point, I find myself leaning against a wall with my eyes closed, wondering when the elevator will finally get to my floor. When I open my eyes, I realize that I'm in my bathroom.

Our most annoying resident wanders over to me three times during one of the alarms. He asks me, each time, what day it is. The second time, he drools on my shoes. One of the larger dogs comes over, sniffs my feet, then walks away.

I come back from the shelter at about 10 PM and realize that I haven't written this yet. I write this. When I'm done, I'll eat a bit, sleep, and no doubt go to the shelter at least once. At least I won't have to go to the nurses' office until morning.