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From: J
Category: Other stuff
Date: 06 February 2004
Other stuff, this review, other stuff. Stuff the Others, they give you colds. The full moon, the snow, the spring in winter. The cruel mercurial British weather has filled my passages with the glorious green phlegm that won us an empire. It began, like all great stories, with an inferno, a desert, not pudding, in my throat, three days of waking with a thrilling realisation that elves had been sandpapering my sofy, slimy, food chute all night.
After. Feverish. So many sneezes in art galleries, heralding with their extavagant explosion shuddering my brain, the onset of the main event: illness. Now I am stuffed up and lethargic, my mouth salty, my nose and throat requiring clearing, perhaps evacuation. And soon it shall all be forgotten, another common fucking vulgar cold, like all the rest of the minor viruses, forgotten without even a bacterium to write its obituary.
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