Sorry for Being a Bore.

Damn. It’s back. I thought I was doing well today – confining the sickness to a mere twenty four hours. Once a line is drawn under something I’m usually pretty good at getting rid of the symptoms quickly. I suppose it comes of having had a fair bit of practice. Seems this one is not only keen, but more deep-rooted than I'd hoped. Having a visitor from New York earlier didn’t help. And it is the wee small hours of the morning, a time well known to be when the human animal is at its most vulnerable, not to mention that the root of the virus is a rare and spectacular one. I suppose I should be grateful for a new experience, but I can’t say I’m enjoying this one.

And that brings up another point about the Greyville subject. Within the walls of Greyville, reason rules. Maybe not always in the observance, but certainly in the expectation. Outside the walls its currency is much weaker, and those inclined to step outside are usually the sort to be ruled and guided by other masters and muses. And so even an intelligent colour seeker can spend all day explaining to himself why it’s wrong or irrational to feel a certain way, but it has little effect. He’s more of a feeling creature than a reasoning one, at least in some situations.

And I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, as usual. Tomorrow I have to do something I’ve been putting off. A Greyville something. I don’t function well there these days.

Oh, fuck it! I don’t like feeling this way. The scotch didn’t do its job last night, so let’s try again. I’ve always been one to try again.