This feeling in my body (weakness in the legs and thickness in the head, sore in my back and unwilling to leave my bed), I can't help but wonder - I can't help but think of Jezebel and the Yellow Jack scare. Logically I know that isn't even relevant, but feverish, romantic nightmares are the best thing about being this sick. I start to worry if maybe all this depravity disguised as decadence has caught up with me. If the gorilla on my back (no longer a little monkey) belongs to these hot fingers grabbing my neck and making it so hard to breathe.

Tonight I long to be a fisherman or a fish (a lion or a gazelle) on the ocean, in the ocean (in the great, wide open savannah). I want to drive a hook through a fish, I want to bash heads with hammers (I want to feel the hook driven through me, I want to see the hammer coming down all blood and ice and dark dark metal and then shoot into darkness, fall into nothing). I want to be on the sea, in the sea (not the sea I have seen but one dark and tempestuous and always cold, always with daggers of ice crashing into the hull).