This is Day 14 of the Death Cold, the Andromeda Strain, the Satan Bug -- whatever the Center For Disease Control winds up calling it somewhere on a back-link of an obscure medical website no longer useful as public caution but safe place enough to risk shock data one is 'responsible' for.
It lives.
It's played with my larynx, my uvula, my nasal lining, and is squeezing the walls of my pulmones, tickling my bronchii.
I sometimes wail to the heavens for pity, but the gurgle hardly leaves my crusted lips before a flash of sunlight teases the blinds long enough to heat the room and contrast its interior damp.
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