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Stories It was a night plagued by broken sleep and dark dreams. He could feel his body temperature fluctuating from burning hot to icy cold, all the while bathed in a fine layer of sweat, creating the most uncomfortable extremes. The only sound to pierce the darkness was the occasional cough or sniffle, both of which were accompanied by a break in the already light, feverish sleep that he was enduring.
Waking up was no arduous task, yet the dreadful malady only grew worse, masking his hunger, thought, and emotion. He quietly stumbled about his routine, feeling dazed, like it was just some realistic dream. Yet he did not wake up. It was reality. He was sick.
Dealing with it is no fun task; one never wishes to be sick, it just comes and goes at it pleases, ruining many a good day. No medication, no matter how potent, can deal a death blow to the intoxicating malady. One must be patient, allow it to pass, and hope that it is never seen again.
His day dragged on, seemingly unrealistic aside from the misery which was a conscious indication that he was still an inhabitant of reality. There was no excitement, no anger, no passion, only the constant ticking of the clock which would signify when his day was over and he could return home to rest.
Love was not his first thought, nor his second, or third; it was shoved to the back of his mind with the rest of the emotions that he felt only brought him some form of pain. He does not despise love; rather, he is cautious of it, just as the fish is cautious of the shark. He felt, in his deranged, sickly state, some form of love budding, ready to flower soon. This thought he carried in his head the whole day, debating with himself the actions he could take.
Yet he merely placed those thoughts in the back of his mind, where he felt they belonged. With this he lay back down to get another night of restless sleep. His night was unpleasant. Sleep did not come to him as quickly, or as easily, as he had hoped.
