Wednesday, May 11, 2005


I am sick. I have the sickie smell (as my old friend James called it). That slightly sweet, slightly rancid odour on the breath, in the mouth, on the skin even.

My throat is a mucous factory, specializing in canary yellow. My sinuses are like balloons slowly expanding behind my face, pressing into my brain, and muddling my thoughts. These balloons are filled with something that feels like silly putty -- dense, slow, and most pliable when warm. Hard to breathe, hard to talk, hard to think. This cold makes me feel like I am walking through rooms filled with water, talking through a thick blanket, thinking with a brain encased in heavy layers of steamy yeasty bread dough.

It took me seven and a quarter hours to type this post.


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