Now I'm sick, with the following symptoms:
1) Sore throat. Right about where the interior mouth ends and things begin to slide down the neck, it feels cut up, swollen, and lined with acid. If I speak excitedly, it starts with, "Oh! I really love this -", then huck-huck-hack-hack-phlegm, but no blood in the sample. What's worse is the feeling when I swallow. It feels grey and alien. Like a bundle of strange flesh, partly organic and partly dirtied cement. But, I like swallowing - nothing is better for milkshakes, or a prolonged silence - and this inaccessible lump has spoiled that casual pastime.
2) Ashy brain. It's as if someone spilled an urn inside my skull. The synapses are clogged, dusty, and thoughts lag for hours if they come at all. It's hard to tell if any idea is worthwhile - they all seem mediocre, or strange, or unwelcome, anyway best unsaid or unwritten. But the idea that they are best left unsaid and unwritten also seems mediocre, so it's happened that this idea, of describing my symptoms, is being (cough-huck-huck) written anyhow.
3) Devil-may-care attitude and outlook. This isn't anything new, but it feels more at home now with the other two symptoms.
4) I watched a movie this morning that was really almost about death, but, like most movies, books, conversations, etc, ended up being about sex. About getting enough sex before death, or how sex leads to death, or how death inhibits more sex from happening, or how the fear of death resembles and uses some of the same mechanisms as the lust for sex, (huck-huck-phlegm) or how sex and death are all we even care about whatsoever. I just ended up wondering if it's more intelligent, or more honest, to care more about sex or more about death. And how that movie was kind of a waste of time.
