"This planet has billions of passengers on it, and those were preceded by infinite billions and there are vaster billions to come, and none of these, no, not one, can I hope ever to understand. Never! And when I think how much confidence I used to have in understanding—you know?—it's enough to make a man weep. Of course, you may ask, what have numbers got to do with it? And that's right, too. We get too depressed by then, and should be more accepting of multitudes than we are. Being in point of size precisely halfway between the suns and the atoms, living among astronomical conceptions, with every thumb and fingerprint a mystery, we should get used to living with huge numbers."

- Saul Bellow, Henderson The Rain King

That's my current read.

I did end up staying home today. I wasn't sure about it this morning, but I think it was for the best. The aspirin seems to be keeping my fever down to a more reasonable level; I'm not having as much trouble thinking coherently as I was last night. But I must admit to being oddly hypnotized by the Teletubbies when I accidentally hit the wrong channel on the TV remote this morning. I think they're about at my level today.

For as long as I can remember, the odd mental state that comes from fever has been one of my least favorite parts of being sick. (Along with vomiting, but we covered that a couple of weeks ago when I dealt with stomach flu!) For the past twenty-four hours or so I've been in a fog. Knowing that I am in this fog does nothing to help dissipate it; my concentration skills are virtually nil and I find myself confused and a little lost.

It's easier to just drift in and out of sleep until it passes—the dreams that come generally make no more sense (nor seem any less real) than the reality I waken to. That's been what I've done today—drift quietly from drinking fluids to reading a few pages of Bellow to sleeping fitfully to scratching whichever kitty is requesting to be scratched.

I hope I'll feel better tomorrow. Since I've been drinking cold liquids I can't check my temperature, but the fuzzy edge touching my consciousness tells me I am still slightly feverish (though nowhere near as bad as last night). My neck is stiff and sore, and my throat still protests when I try to eat or drink anything.

I just wonder, though—if I pretend for long enough that the kitchen isn't a disaster area, will that make it so? That would be the most wonderful dream of all. Twice today I have walked into the kitchen and looked at the pile of pots and pans and dishes and stuff and thought, "No. I just can't handle this right now."