Virus of the Soul

In the Costa at the big Tescos today, waiting for Em. Stood at the escalators looking down, past that smooth rhythm sound of the conveyor built, through the sounds of tills and footsteps and baskets and trolleys, and through it all, but still unsure what I was looking to.
I flicked through the Sunday newspapers. There was nothing interesting in them.
The mild illness continues on its strange course. The symptoms are so minute as to be almost indescribable. It feels like I have a depression of the body, or a virus of the soul perhaps. I feel disconnected from the world, looking at everybody passing by in the late winter sun like I might look at people in a dream.
When we got back to Em's flat I curled up on her bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep for an hour or two.
By the time I returned home, I was subject to a creeping unanchored melancholy. These feelings I find are not uncommon to such mild illnesses. I spent the evening changing my room round, which made me feel better. Battling with the heavy bookcase, making a makeshift table out of boards of plywood, an old portfolio and a half finished canvas happily occupied me instead.
Andy stood on the threshold of my room. 'I can smell blood' he said 'like when you cut your finger'.
For some reason, this spooked me out a bit.
I don't know why.
I could smell no blood.