Mother of All Fevers, Day 4: sense of humor fading. Respiratory system sounds like a ’97 Compaq Computer reading a CD-Rom. Zero appetite. Zero patience. Zero desire to draw a set of eyes on my index finger and use my thumb as the lower jaw of Mr Handy. I now suspect SARS, or a hex from an adversary who has yet to reveal themselves. If I expire, make sure they play Tom Waits at my funeral, but not that early, piano bar stuff – something from Rain Dogs or later. Headstone should include but not be limited to the following statement: “He never actually got around to reading Slaughterhouse Five – he knows, he knows.”