Haze.

I spent much of my day prone and awake, in a state far less productive than sleep. The lingering discomfort of illness goaded me to consciousness, grinning as it roused me with a lecherous cat call of lungs which rumbled with a wet mockery of purring, made uncomfortable by the memory of pain.

I was never alone. There was always someone at the door. Only with their sleep does my moderately delirious, exhausted self have a chance at production. They are most appreciated. I live fully aware that I will experience a comparatively isolated life at an apartment in future times fast encroaching on the present, with only a roommate and Doctor Lonesome occupying my slithering hours. That damned Doctor Lonesome is always puffing on his pipe, stopping and examining it with newborn wonder during every droll exhalation as I stew in his secondhand insanity.

Saturday updates are still very much in the plans. Thursday nights ought to be unencumbered from here on out and I am waiting at the gate so I can leave this loathsome state of disease.

-Tyrus Peace