Summer like Typhoid

Two dimensional skies; an inpossible plural, a flat enigma, existential paradox. The sky is there but it seems composed of elements of anti-being. An off-white nowhere without depth or dimension, where all the angles stretch on into forever.

There is no sun, but the summer generates a damp heat inside me, slinky fever falling from kidneys to liver, from lungs to heart. My internal organs mummified in clingfilm. Fever wraps itself around my spine. I told Emily yesterday that this close stuffy weather feels like the air had typhoid. She laughed and said typhoid was a lot worse, which she should know, as she has had it before. Suspected anyway. Most exotic thing I've had, fortunately is the flu.

The air feels heavy. I can't type properly. Sentences keep tripping over my fingers. The blinds are down and I can't see the sea. I can't imagine it moving. Waves like honey, crystalling in a white-out amber, cobweb tides, Iindustrial grey currents.

No-one else seems to notice. Someone remarks its cold and turns the air conditioning up.