sitting at my desk, meditating unproductively on the work at hand, i realize i am whimpering softly. if you could hear the voice i am using to write these words, it would be about eight years old, tiny and soft: my usual little girl voice, even littler and more girly. but if i spoke aloud, you would hear a deep smoky whisky ragged edge, and i like that part about being sick. i sound more grown up.
when you blow your nose, or hock up a loogie, do you look in the tissue and evaluate the snot? i do. is that weird?
i don’t have a fever. i’m just like this. my fingers are puffy. there is a cushion of air pressure between my skin and the world, which is just out of reach through the daze.
i rather like this. did i say that? advil and coffee propping me upright. other than that, tilt. tilt is alright by me.