I am sick, playing host to a virus

In the air are rumours of snow--the shopping mall heralds Christmas cheer and annihilation of the soul. What else is there to do but get drunk on eggnog--hold the egg--and pretend to be homeless? For homeless I am, in a sense--I am a vagabond of the brain--and I can't print out my pornographic Christmas cards till my printer be fixed.

On Monday morn I swore I heard the electric ring of the doorbell--I thought it was the milkman begging for his pay--but when I cracked open the threshold, I was left facing a vortex of swirling white cold. Oh Hello Hell, Come no further. And I shut the door before I got sucked in or out, I'm not sure which.

But it was of no use--that vortex held a villain--and now I find myself playing unwilling host to a virus worse than death. I have been sleeping in the bathroom to save some energy; my daybook's filled by vomiting and diarrhea, and sometimes they show up disastrously early for their appointments, creating soiled laundry for a housewoman who's in another continent. Damn incontinence! Oh damn... and how the flushing of the toilet only reminds me of the sinister vortex peddler at the door.

Last night while I lay in a primordial ooze of sweat and germs, I remembered my favourite vomit--the one where I spat out my soul. And I wonder if that was birth or death or something different completely. In a mad sick fever I jotted down the following words on a piece of toilet paper that had missed the mark:

Regurgitation is creation, as I puke into the void.

I then took the toilet paper and swallowed it and pranced about like an Arcadian faun while wondering from which end it would emerge.