Bleh

[rejectomorph]

Heat moderated by a soft breeze, the northern sky streaked with cirrus clouds, the late afternoon shade creeping out from houses across the street to calm the glare of the pavement; this would be a pleasant enough time were the inside of my head not as desiccated as the brown lawn. The virus seems poised to invade my lungs in force, now, having dried up the defenses in my throat. There is a tickling intimation of impending cough. This could turn into one of those slow-motion colds that lasts for weeks. Feh.

Stuff is happening, but now I don't feel like trying to write about it. Everything has that skewed quality that comes with any inflammatory condition. I feel crappy, and the world goes weird. More television, in lieu of a cure.