.process.

I've finally woken up from a fever running at 104 and - mate, it was hellish. No pun intended, of course. I only joke about hell on the weekends.

Anyhow, amidst the dreary drifts and fitful fantasies spurred by continual doses of Advil, images and words struck me like I was panning for gold. These particular moments, dreamlike in quality and clarity, I tried to hold fast, almost against their will. The weak floral print protested under my insistence and whole ideas shredded into bits like ripped cloth. Some rags clasped tight in my fingers, others floated away.


When I awoke, not from the fitful fever, but from the sleep, the world seemed much less definable and I, in turn, much less loquacious. Mingled with a sense of drowsiness, was a feeling of being torn - proud that I had managed to finally achieve what seems to be so impossible these days, yet aggravated to realize just how easily I'd let these words slip away again.


I fervently tried to join the loose threads of what was floral rags. There was not much left to salvage, but at least I'll have tried.
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