Fourteen Years, Lost on the Carriages

The main symptom of this cold I have had now for a week is a rather high temperature, with very little in the way of other cold related side-effects. A ittle bit of the sniffles, a slight cough, but all I can really complain of is a high-ish temerature, a slight fever, and a constant exhaustion. Well, and a continuous low-level headache.
I failed to leave the bedsit today until twilight, when I needed more tobacco and some 23p cans of orangeade, or so it appeared when I got to the newsagent. I spent the rest of the day slumbering on the sofa, interspersed by finishing off my carton of 'tropical juice drink' and, for some reason, playing the guitar.
Playing the guitar while mildly ill is interesting. Certain chord progressions bring to mind images like memories; crows flying over a drizzly sky, a girl sleeping in the sun, a Meditterenean church, cracked tiles and white peelig paint. The stillness of a southern European day.
I wish I could remember more of the delerium fuelled dreams of the past week though. A few days ago, I dreamt I was on an epic tran journey, but people kept vanishing from their seats when they had problems wih their tickets. It transpired that the people running the train were getting rid of all the men, whle the women were chosen to work in myserious 'laser factories.' I escaped at a station called 'Wyverrn Falls' and was told by a woman I had escaped just in time. She had just rescued her friend from the train and that she had been lost on the carriages 'for fourteen years'.
I dreamt last night of a lost 1980s thrash metal band who were called 'Iron Destructor'. I don't remember anythng else of the dream, but they sounded like a band I would have loved during my teenage years. I had another dream fragment last night, of a secondhand bookshop in Brighto that I would go to and buy old horror and ghost story anthologies from the 1970s. When I first woke up I was convinced that the shop actually existed in Brighton and wondered why I had not visited it for a long time. It took a few seconds for me to realise the shop only existed in a dream. The strange thing was, as I lay there thinking about this unreal shop, I could 'see' where it would be in Brighton, in a vastly different West Street that didn't seem to lead to the sea.
It was strange realising that the street didn't exist. It felt, somehow, that waking lfe was wrong and that the dream-geography was right.
The man in the bedsit next door is paying his guitar. I wonder if he hears me playing mine, and when did the Portugese woman move out? I think I saw her once in the eight months I have been livng here.
The news is on the television, oil spills and floods, gas explosions and bank profits.
I coud watch a film, but I really don't know what to watch.
The uncertain delerium continues, and it is not necessarily unpleasant.