The photograph in the last blog entry is, unsurprisingly, not actually of me arguing with a member of the paparazzi whilst drunk.
It was - less excitingly - a picture taken whilst I suffered with a virus. The similarities between the drunk me and the virus-riddled me are numerous!
I realised I had been inflicted with it last Saturday night when walking back from work. Ordinary objects of nature took on new forms and characteristics: tree stumps were dancing, or were they waving their arms helplessly as they burned in a fire that I couldn't see?
A metal bridge loomed in the distance, resembling a sad, green mouth in a child's drawing. Or was it a monocoloured rainbow, hung there by man?
When sleep came, it was brief and filled with images of destruction and fatalities that caused my body to jerk and thereafter wake up with a thumping heart.
The body that jerks and the body that wakes up are one and the same, but illness seems to cut the cord which connects the two. It wasn't me dreaming such terrible things, so why have I just been dragged away from sleep - again?
Sleep and virii serve to confuse - dreams are more real than the waking which follows them: a man sweating and cursing on top of a bed. I think I prefer it that way.
