fit for sickness.

the last time i had a horrible fever, boy was in boulder, and i was left fending for myself through hallucinations and groping for the garbage can to puke in.

what i vaguely remember of my fever pitch dreams ... for some reason, they seem to fit rather like joints into my thoughts today.

a room of immense dimensions, draped in burgundy and purples dark enough to be night, lurking in the outcast rims of some city. mounds and piles of people, laying all over new silken mattresses and velvety floor pillows, not unlike an opium den. every one of them lost and delighting in their own fantasies ... until the rounds hit them.

every forty five minutes or so, you get sick. that was when i would come out of the comforting lost-ness of the wafting room to throw up what wasn't left in my stomach in my sad version of a bedroom in the middle of the night. then i'd lay back onto my sweat-soaked pillow and disappear back into that room.

yeah, everyone got sick, but man, you got a kick out of those forty five minutes or so when you could just lay there and breathe.