Illness. That rushing, roaring darkness. The body is compromised and its defenses are under constant siege. Just past the defensive layer a foe looks to raze all in its path. Yes, I am sick and sick I am. A rare occurrence, really, and a dreadful one. I have heard from a close friend that the breaking of a fever is romantic and almost magical. It is mighty enough to inspire poetry like no other and if one focuses on the inside — battle raging, reality quaking — a special sort of illumination reveals itself. For hours of the night I could commit myself to the pen and the page, but what is the use? In that same length of time I could be unconscious, all that I know taken away and set adrift in some other place, a land foreign to me yet familiar enough to recognize. Is it stress that foundered my defenses? Did the generosity of my time, money and energy, stone by ripping stone, compromise my integrity? Was it too much in such a little time? The answers to these questions are left unknown. As fascinating as they may be, I do not need the answers. I am the answer. And if it is I that must save myself from myself, so be it. I will become my own champion and the morrow will be fatigued, in pain, but alive and very much cured.