And whoops, like a slip on the ice or a greasy flagstone, and for most of a week here I was horizontal or nearly so. Activity reduced to reading, dozing or more dramatically, gripped by hallucinatory dreams, heated by spikes in temperature, I assume though I realise I have never invested in a thermometer, so checking was not possible. A mid-June bout of flu: a self-diagnosis, it’s true but it will do as I seem to be on the road to recovery; my trip out this morning a little further and longer than the one yesterday, the loss of appetite slowly changing shape in to an increased sense of hunger. Tuesday seemed the worst day when I was even unable to read.
There were some very interesting, exciting gifts of poetry that arrived at around two in the morning on at least two occasions: such glorious intensity . . . but, as is the way of these things, mere dust in the morning to be scattered in the wind.