I am lethargic with malaise, three days of fever, ague, restless and uneasy slumbers haunted by paroxysms of hallucinatory phantoms with whom I am interacting. The line between waking/sleeping is blurry. I’m on the nod, like a junkie, but my abused substance is language, or, rather, the shape it gives my reality — a reality which is, at this point, something more like illusion, an occult, clouded, arcane concoction the ins and outs and boundaries and rules and sensibilities of which would make sense to no one but me.
My world, in other words, here in my sick-bed, is one of recondite, abstruse, concealed shape and size and sound and secrets: there are spells and connections and relationships between past and future and fantasy and what I did and who I was and where I am going and messages, the messages the universe is sending by forcing this stillness and silence upon me.
Last night I was made to take this picture (at top of post) of the decoding manuals disguised as poetry stacked on my bedside table. A table that has been in my family for more than 100 years. A table I brought with me from Libertytown. A table on which have sat the sleep-supplies (when sick and well) of my paternal grandparents, my aunt, and now, me. Who will take it next? There is no one for me to pass this on to. There is no one for me to pass this on. There is no one for me to pass this. There is no one for me to pass. There is no one for me to. There is no one for me. There is no one for. There is no one. There is no. There is. There. Here. Ere. Re. E.