Kornelius seems to be ill. Well, he’s not the only one.
In a feverish bubble of unreality I sit and shiver, with a total lack of energy or mind fuel to actually see anything but my own miserable state. I should’ve been at home, but I don’t want to use my sick-days. And, if I were at home; what would I be doing? Nothing that I can’t do here… except sleeping. I try not to go to the bathroom, because I could fall asleep and drown in the toilet. I try not to speak to people, because I don’t make any sense and have no use or whatsoever of common sense. I try not to vomit. This works.
I’m sitting here waiting for someone to discover that I’ve been here for five hours without doing anything. I’m quite good at looking buissy. My desk is full of paper and I keep typing on the keyboard. I sound important and buissy. And a bit plugged.
Thing is, when I get home I’ve got plenty of stuff to do. Clean my room, fetch my clothes from Bislet etc. But will I do it? No. I am a battery without acid, a drugaddict without narcotics, a dog without a bone. I am a body of fever. Hellish cold and freezingly hot. And there is one thing my mind is set on: sleep.