Fevers! You are a paralysis! Lying on a languid mattress, strayed as idle hours at an opium den..... & the fates eye has withdrawn in a prosaic fashion. For in her womb there was a fear of birth, but that taunting ghost of arousal lingers... Like the baritone croak of a toad belching bubbles of black liquor & these nostrils drip... For theirs lies some aches a round of poison can't pause. So strap on a gas mask to purge a clear channel of breath. Longing for the nostalgia of that light spring air sequestered in a monastery by the closed shutters of winters brittle bones, & only a sober gentleman could deduce such a string of cowards, crooks, & tragedies, but that wouldn't happen to be this funny fellow. For notes of madness melt this mirage of modesty! For the touch of sensation is a pendulum swaying from the cool brush of elation to a caress coarse with thorns, & quietly I whisper to these numbed naked nerves... Where am I?! Sweat... Shivering fevers, this news trembles in my shaken gut... Sick?!