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Poetry and Medicine
January 24/31, 2007

A Dictionary of Anhedonia

JAMA. 2007;297(4):342. doi:10.1001/jama.297.4.342

Quite simply:
Sleep is the meaning of life.
Resisting gravity becomes a bad idea.
Creative thought concludes a bathrobe is a wardrobe.
Sudden insight notes that no one needs to shave.
Existential choice puzzles between coffee now or later.
Discovery sighs that baby powder does cool the flaming creases.
Making love is staying on your own side of the bed.
Simultaneous orgasm yawns and stretches at the same time.
Social conscience smells your armpits.
Civic responsibility keeps your arms down.
Working out is a productive round-trip to the bathroom.
Anticipation waits for your dog to check if you're breathing.
Breakthrough gets up by eleven.
Relapse goes to bed before eight.
Optimism believes you’ll think of something you can do.
Pessimism remembers that you don't do it well.
Fear guesses you might be made of glass.
Hope insists you will respect yourself again.
Faith knows faith is still out there somewhere offering itself to you.
Love bets the love surrounding you is just enough to contain your
   reasons to die.

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