Well, I’ve been working, is all. Working and working and working, and now I’m sick and sick and sick. I hate being sick—all I want to do is sit around and whine and be pitied. This morning Sarah looked out the window into the still greyness and said, “It’s bleak.” “Yes,” I said, “bleak like my heart.” “You are bad at being sick,” she said. Everything hurts, and objects feel soft, like my house is made of marshmallows. I just, I need a hug.