GPOYW.
A nurse who was fascinated by my ears told me that the steroid shot I was unnecessarily given (but appreciated) would make it hard for me to sleep; that’s unlikely, as I’m already sleepy enough that the only thing keeping me awake is the dripping noises coming from inside my cavernous respiratory system. Being sickly, I’ve imagined an elaborate world inside my sinuses: like a ruined Gothic cathedral, supporting buttresses made indistinguishable from stalagmites by centuries of flow and accumulation.
But being sick has its compensations: Bayou, books, and the otherwise alien idea that I am being productive by sleeping, lazy rest transformed by armchair medical theorizing into some sort of immunological exercise. Feel the burn.
forget not the dreams borne of fever or wretched states. the clanking of mind in such fervor is crisp as wind through frozen wheat and the chaff drops the germ easily onto the skyblued and crystallined layer of daytime snow. perfect for examination and empirical gatherings and sustenance at a later date. rue not a failing body for we all know that it shall ever find itself a corpse, whence your eyes shall cease to see and your fingers shall hold no more and a cerebral cortex will be left to the knives of students.
the texture of every breath shall not be lost on those that find repose within their senses and riposte the world of the living and the quick.
feel better, chappy.
