April 3rd, 2002. - 7:20 p.m.

Bah! I said, bah!

This sore throat and feverishness will be the death of me.

The weather has been turbulant and strange. Clear skies and birds singing like a postcard spring day. Dramatically darkens, a mad flurry, pouring down like an accidently spilled bag of salt meeting the gust of a lazy summer fan. It has been about 45 hours indoors, and I watch from the window.

My brains have leaked out of my ears over night, and the cavity has been filled with balls of cotton and pieces of paper.

The eyes lack a general ability to focus, and makes everything seem like an odd hallucination.

I do not need illegal drugs, I just need to be sick. (Sorry, R.)

Bah. This needs to stop.

N.

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