The warmth of sunlight on your eyes reminds you of the resonant harmony of a brass choir. You are less than harmonic as you lurch out to feteh The New York Times, maneuver it and yourself into your reading chair with a thump. So far, so good for your uninvited guest, the flue virus.
As you most often do, you find the Sunday Crossword Puzzle, curious to see if your mood is a product of clearing or fuzzy mind. Number one: Big gasbag. Five letters. Before you are able to conduct a survey of gasbags you've known in various universities or publishing ventures, the five letters are shouting out at you b-l-i-m-p.
This leads you to assess 1 down. Sons of, in Hebrew. Four spaces. Piece of cake b-n-a-i. In about a half hour, you are spread throughout the puzzle, overcome by the activity to the point where you have the first paragrap;h pretty well stated for the next essay to go into the book project.
The day looks well. You've taken a close enough look at yourself in the mirror to know that while you might not look all that chipper and alert, there are signs churning within you of alertness and chipperness. Except that they arenbt' You recognize the oncoming chill, which means you'd been running fever to burn off the bugs, and now you must cool down.
That was some time ago. You can keep your hear up, but you'd rather not. You can keep your eyes open, but, well, you'd rather not. The lesson learned from this day of the flu is that every key stroke on your keyboard, every line and swirl when composing in pen and ink must be earned. There is no way around it,
This is what you earned today.
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