Not today Satan, if you please

Such strange weather—why, why … no really! Why am I so susceptible? All it is, is a little heat, a little moisture in the air—and that five degree drop over night. Not good! Is it rust?

Am I fucking rusting?

No, just outwitted by peculiar weather [coughs]: I’m damp, not too wet—but it’s the chill. It’s the bloody chill that gets you; runs you down and lets the germs cry havoc.

I have all this copy in relative states (diplomatic, Moi?).

Twenty years of letters, which I like more than the notes. Have you seen my brain? It’s utterly incomprehensible—I think. Anyway—give me the journals. I want to do the journal: its grown up at least. But you’re still obsessing over the notebooks.

“Everything I do ONLY has a kind of sense.”

What does that even mean?

Does it mean nothing I do makes … something, something sense?

Affirming the consequent there, darling? Embarrassing [coughs]. Or am I denying the antecedent?

I’ll be denying any responsibility for those notebooks, if …

God, I feel rough. It’s humid, I’m cold and hot and damp. Shit, am I coughing?

Really Satan [cough]!

OK, the TODO list is being given a delay until I get a couple of chapters in and I need to charge my headphones.

I did get that email finished though. Hot.

Go and breathe for twenty hours, amateur.