Unclear where to focus. There's the headache. The lurch of breakfast skipped. Nasal congestion, blockage unmovable, intangible, perhaps imagined. No. Inflammation is real here. Throat stripped back like nude concrete after the flame takes tar away. Rings around the eyes, pressure, tiny angry siblings curled on top of you, crushing your face again. Lack of focus abounds. O! Neck pain comes to the fore. Cold toes. Pelvis made of rotting wood. The tea has quashed the cough for now. Spine of broken wishbones misplaced. Every limb ending in lead, made rough with chisel. Eyelids lined with sand, tiny burning go on. Too much sitting and not enough of anything else. It's just too much. Gone soft and gray, grayer. Trading metal for bone, or plastic. Lungs hang down embarrassingly, coal wet with chalky moss. Yes, this is the state of things, after some sleep, some pills, forty-three years, and some medications: a single thought about getting better, going on slowly, or the five o'clock shadow of tea silt ringing the concavity of the mug.