I hate being sick. I hate being sick. I hate being sick.

I hate the feeling of wanting to do something and not having the energy to do it. I hate the feeling of wanting to eat and not having an appetite. I hate the feeling of lying down, exhausted, and not being able to fall asleep because I’m feeling too miserable.

I normally just ignore the feelings of sickness, reckoning it will eventually go away. It usually does. This time, however, it didn’t. It struck back with a vengeance.

I came home early from work today, something I *never* do, because I was so exhausted. I entered the apartment. The workmen were here, working on replastering the newly created walls. They obviously had also been sanding, but had neglected to put any plastic up. An incredibly fine, white dust covered *everything* in my apartment — the floors, the tabletops, the books, the wine bottles, the piano, everything.

I felt so run down I couldn’t even muster any emotion. No anger, no disappointment, nothing. I ran my fingers over the surface of a table and looked at the layer of grayish white dust on my fingers. I looked at the workmen. “Seriously?” They stared at me. I stared at them. I walked into my bedroom, shut the door, and crawled into bed.