A day of psychedelic fever, a night of cold sweats, a day of peace, a night of explosive diarrhea, a transformation of green ass goo reappearing as green lung goo.  This morning I woke up with the bed soaked again and all the windows fogged.  The sheets still haven’t been washed.  I feel like a floundering Bruce Banner, with a Hulk trying to boil its way out of my skin and falling short again and again, leaving sad stretch marks and deflated skin instead of birthing an angry superhero.  As it tries, little chunks of the old me fall off, making my winter coat bigger and bigger.  There’s someone inside me trying to muster up the strength to get out.  And in the meantime, there’s work to be done.  Days to sound smart.  Days to act fun.  Days to appear strong.  Days to be a sympathetic friend.  Days to table all the questions for another day.  Days to sweat and sweat and sweat and ache and cough and boil.  Days and days.  Days where the sickness gets filed away with the heartache under “it’s been too long to still be interesting but isn’t going away anytime soon so you just have to fake it.”  Days just like today.