Wednesday, 27 August 2008


You feel a bit poorly on the Thursday so you go to bed for a time. You wake up and realize it's still Thursday, so you get up and about a bit of your business, a bit more slowly than usual so as to be on the safe side. With a cold fogginess you come to understand that it is now Thursday, a week later. Far more than sleep, sickness resembles death, coming at you on soft, downy, cancerous wings of an indeterminate colour, not black nor even dark enough to be grey.

1 comment:

The Pook said...

How thanatically poetic Gordon!