I'm told that we don't like to write about our most banal of woes. It's such an inconvenient blight to fit into our tight-knit prose. We want our art to speak of Life (or sometimes grieve for lives that were). But Sickness is a passing strife; it isn't really who we are. and yet this fever rages on my head in fog my stomach turned my throat is tight my lungs on fire and every bone and muscle sore Until I can do something real, it seems that I am sadly stuck expressing how I really feel by yelling fuuuuuuuuuuuuck