My immune system is being unkind to me again this weekend. My coughing fits had gotten so severe that my physician has seen fit to prescribe something unprecedented to the scope of over-the-counter medication.
Who would have thought that a moment's respite from expectorating one's own blood could find purchase in codeine-laced promethazine, the creativity flowing forth from one's fingers like butterflies upon each keystroke? Every moment now transpires into an out of body experience, the luminescence coalescing freely from an LCD backdrop on a disembodied sensation, trying to discern the interpretive numina of the garbage truck ever-present outside my bedroom window. Flash. Flash. Lift. And it's gone, further down the dark, to attend to another yet lonely garbage can. I can only weep at the significance.
The sum of my being is available over IM and phone and email, although it is unlikely that we will commune on the same plane of understanding until my medication has metabolized sufficiently out of my biological venue. (...which does not exist in my current frame of reference - the dangerous ramblings of Descartes loom ominously at the fringes of my attentions, all material existence is possibly a malicious manifestation of some mischievous higher power, or with some degree of enforcement of a supreme effort of one's self epistemology, transgresses too closely to a soliptic weltanschauung of Rhonda Byrne proportions.)