Fever Dream (has nothing to do with Ray Bradbury)

Last night, I was running a high fever, and I couldn’t help but get under the covers and attempt to rest to ease the pain of the heat. I nearly skipped dinner due to the pain, but I was hungry and weak. All I had was an apple and a glass of milk, despite the fact that there was a smorgasboard on the dinner table that night. I tried some painkillers, then attempted to sleep it off. That proved too much of a task. I had a hard time breathing, thanks to the mucous buildup in my throat and nostrils. This is the flu, I’m sure.

I needed to rest. I kept blowing my nose on tissue after tissue after tissue, just to clear up my nose. I tried to sleep. I fever dreamed.

First, my room was filled with my college friends, all of them dressed in black and almost jovial in my darkened room. They were saying “YEAH! YOU CAN DO IT, MAN! YESSS!!!” like a bunch of football hooligans. It was like a party in my little room, packed with more or less fifty people, jumping up and down my bed, climbing the wardrobe, and swinging from the curtains. Damn you all.
Next, came in every writer, poet, songwriter, author, and journalist I admire. Neil Gaiman was there. Hunter S. Thompson was there. Edgar Allan Poe was there. John Lennon was there. Ray Bradbury was there. Robert Smith was there. They just stood there. Staring at me.
Last came nothing but darkness. The fever dream was gone, and the wave I rode was fucked up.

I’m feeling okey now. And still fucked up.

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