Oh man, this cold. I spent Friday and Saturday night on the couch just so my coughing wouldn’t keep Marco awake (and because I secretly love sleeping on couches…something about that tall, padded wall on one side, like sleeping in a cushy clam), but last night I was feeling slightly better so I rolled into bed only to wake up and find Marco out on the couch: apparently I coughed and coughed all night long (all night), all night long (all night!), which I vaguely remember, though I think I thought it was just a dream about choking and death. The barrier between reality and that peculiar repetitive anxious torture dream-state is porous indeed these sick days and nights.

Between all my endless napping in strange formations on the couch and bed and floor, I’ve also managed to put a horrendous crick in my neck, so my torso, shoulders, neck, and head are all moving like one fused log. And I’ve been wearing the sad, schlumpy clothing of the ill for almost a full week now, nothing but sweatpants and sweat-like pants, and socks with four inches of flopping, loose toe, and no bra: udderly fantastic. Also my grey hairs have leapt from “sprinkling” to “going grey” since last Wednesday. And PG&E just started their two-month jack-hammer project out in front of the apartment.