I’m ill. Which is in no way news. It’s not ill behaviour, or ill-gotten gains after all. It is simply a virus, attached to a lifelong genetic issue that is aggravated by stress and is simply, tedious. A lifelong condition — more of a social illness than anything particularly serious. Well, depending on your view of blood. And how important sleep is to you. And feeling, you know, vaguely human.
Anyway. Mustn’t grumble. At least, not on my own time.
One side effect of the discomfort is that I’m feeling constantly hemmed in. Literally, by my own skin. Which is hopeless for friendships, but is rather good for claustrophobic writing. For yes, after a few weeks away I have finally started writing again. And what better start than a long pretentious scene involving thought stones skimming on endless pools of emotion.
Yes, I will keep taking the tablets. And you?
