GPOYW.
A nurse who was fascinated by my ears told me that the steroid shot I was unnecessarily given (but appreciated) would make it hard for me to sleep; that’s unlikely, as I’m already sleepy enough that the only thing keeping me awake is the dripping noise coming from inside my cavernous respiratory system. Being sickly, I’ve imagined an elaborate world inside my sinuses: like a ruined Gothic cathedral, supporting buttresses made indistinguishable from stalagmites by centuries of flow and accumulation.
But being sick has its compensations: Bayou, books, and the otherwise alien idea that I am being productive by sleeping, lazy rest transformed by armchair medical theorizing into some sort of immunological exercise. Feel the burn.
