With my fever at 39, I took a shower and collapsed in the cubicle. I spent four hours, naked, clutching my feet for dear life. Was the house being washed out to sea? My intention was to spruce up for Thom. We'd planned to spend the morning buying a pair of skates. Very likely it wasn't four hours, but I'd made a cocoon of my body, a shield, and nothing, not even time, when it knocked, got an answer. I sensed if I ever got out of the cubicle I'd either be dead, or a mystic. I could smell, taste, or feel an amorphous understanding of the transpersonal. I saw endless vista's enveloping over each other. It was like flipping through a travel magazine, or a deranged search for pornography. To be frank, I'd rather have been dead. I cancelled Thom, cancelled Helen. It's my fourth day alone.