Needle in the Rye

cold pours of sweat from an above-average-temperature core. socks bathed in blanket like breath basked in blood. tingle of spine, lifting of hair, crawling of closed eyes up the body. tossed tourniquet, filled with air, full of confusion. sunken hips and shaking hands. sun came up when eyes rolled backwards, spinning spinning spins.s. s. dreams entailed the proverbial furrowed brow, much stagnation, but with nothing defined even as much as "stagnation". mind feelings and states (maybe analagous to worry, apprehension, decision?) corresponded to strange shapes and colors that were to be categorized, which seemed to go on for hours while never quite progressing. frustration found a voice as it escaped with an unconscious cough. many rigid forms, a horseshoe in a catcher's mitt, enlarged and in endless racks of 12, to be moved by someone. i took the initiative, and kept moving, and kept trying, without anything really happening. eyes cracked at the corners with grey crust and stabbed at fingertips, head throbbed to the beat of the heart adjacent that it wished it inhabited. washed over with harsh but healing soap, warm liquids and small bubbles down throats and pores.

i was ill and in bed for most of this weekend; for brief but significant moments i felt like that paragraph. such is sickness, as we all know, occasionally.