Of an manner like unto iron

Ah yes, another day, another... well, day. You know how it goes, sun rises, sun sets, various things hurt, whinge, whinge, moan, moan. The usual. Trouble is: I got words. I know I got them, because I can hear the little bastards rattling about inside my head -- when it's not making swooooooshing noises and making all the colours bleed as the room revolves -- desperate to get out onto the screen. Only trouble is, I can't put them down in any sort of order.

I've never had proper hallucinations before, you know, joined up ones like you see on the telly where the same vision appears to pick up where it left off on the previous episode? This is like that, only with plots. I think. It sort of makes perfect sense at the time, then I get to the same point and look back at a huge clot of dark, black blood and think, 'What the HELL...?' and find it makes no sense at all. Not even vague sense. Even in Eastbourne -- Sanatogen country -- this wouldn't be understood. Oh, it follows a path of logic, it's just not a path recognisable by man nor beast. Well, maybe to schizophrenic whales, but they're odd that way.

I've usually had a pretty reliable brain. OK, it's not the sharpest thing in the toolbox, but it's consistent. Logical. I'm not used to it tucking its trousers into its socks and going for a run in the sand dunes at night. That's not what respectable brains do. BAD BRAIN! Naughty!

Which means I'm still not able to actually write. Because when I do it makes no sense. BUT -- and it's a small one, as I've lost a lot of ballast from down there, what with all the not eating -- it's getting better. The 'episodes' of lucidity are beginning to join up. And as long as I don't stand up suddenly my chances of falling over are vastly reduced. So I'm going to have a bash at getting down to it again tomorrow. At least for a couple of hours and see if I can produce something that reads like it hasn't been pulled out of a dung heap by a chicken with behavioural problems.

The downside is -- I'm definitely going to deliver late. Unless some sort of miracle happens. Which given my luck to date is pretty bloody unlikely. It was supposed to be a simple enough procedure, one night in hospital, and then a couple of days to recuperate. Not a fortnight of fevers, starvation, halluci-bloody-nations, and projectile bleeding.

But if anyone asks, remember to tell them it's all going well, OK? This is still just our little secret.