Ropes of bodily white hang from pulsing nostrils burned from kerchief chafe. Beard soggy with sweat, tears, and flu-juice. Dilated eyes soak up double the dreadful light. Vomit prone head cantilevers off a back bent with pain. Dry throat torn like bad draft. Groin smells like tropical coitus. Sphincter coughs a threat. Novel doesn’t write itself. Ceiling fan plays the death march. Ideas flee to assemble a nightmare. Where a writer’s ink catches fire and destroys all that he has written. He wakes up and wipes the bile off his face.