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mardi 26 août 2014


I am.

Sludgy mucus rasps onomatopeously against swollen sinuses, sucking noises grasping my ears. Throat sore and aching itches as bacterias spread, my vicinity and incubator for those too foolish to stay away.

Paper fills with brain-sludge as my heart pounds against my head with every sneeze. My body curls up tight against the cold and the woes of old seem near at hand.

What it must have been like, in a shabby little cottage, wet and moldy, with no honey in your tea and no tea in your water, drinking molten ice in rusty cups. Getting a kick in the arse for lying around when there is nothing else you can do, slouching achingly towards the door, feeling as if leaving forever more.

But even if it was worse before, today too, I hate being sick.

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