in which i succumb to a pestilential miasma

alas, alack, etc, and so forth

Last Thursday evening—as I sit taking in the perfect clemency of a Michigan summer evening, perhaps sipping a Coke Zero, perhaps not, I cannot now recall—I feel the faint stirrings of a headache.¹ No worries. It would be gone in the morning. I had probably delved too greedily and too deep in the perfume mines and awoken something in the darkness of Khazad-dum. It would be fine. Meanwhile, I am reading Ann Radcliffe’s classic Gothic novel, The Mysteries of Udolpho. It is extremely boring.

Friday morning, the headache remained. No worries. I took some Tylenol and got on a plane to New York, baby!! It will all be fine. I am still reading The Mysteries of Udolpho. It does not improve.

Saturday morning (location: New York, baby!!), still headache. Looking at computer hurts. Looking at phone hurts. Well it’s fine. I will just write longhand in my notebook and read. …