This stage of the flu may be the most deadly. The fever, chills and neuralgia have subsided some, but are more than willing to reappear. The world is bland, and you crave spice. And you know that the virus is trying to lure you into a false sense of security, in hopes you will become rambunctious, so it can take over again. It is so easy to forget that you are doing battle with a pernicious living entity that is well-schooled in survival skills.

This afternoon, I worked on the web for several hours, but suddenly reached a point of almost exhaustion and had to go to bed for an hour or so. I could feel the various symptoms fighting to take over.

There are two plastic clothes hampers in the corner of my bedroom that are now overflowing with dirty laundry. By rights, the laundry should have been done several weeks ago, but each weekend brought new problems, so I put it off. At this point, I'm hoping I'll be well enough to deal with it in the near future. Or have a ritual purification ceremony.

Someone was trying to have sex with me on the top floor of a white, 19th century Vicorian house. (In fact, it was someone I know, but have never had any feelings about as a sex partner either positive or negative.) The scene started in a corner bedroom and moved to a large parlor next door. In the bedroom, there was a closed opaque, glass-panelled door that lead to a mezzanine that overlooked the lower floors. In the parlor, there was a wide double-sized entrance to the mezzanine with swinging cafe-doors at each side there were pulled open. I moved to the doors, looking for some other type of closure, and discovered two large pocket doors almost obscured by paint. I flipped out the handles and pulled the two together.

The sex then proceeded with various positions and couplings with my partner being very much the initiator. Although I was really not interested, I didn't do anything to prevent the action. At one level I was very aware of the physical stimulation, but there was never any climax. I suppose that if anything, this tells me that wet dreams, successful or failed, are not solely the product of adolescence. It also tells me to avoid mixing NightQuil and Excedrin PM.

At the County Line intersection, two figures, both wearing parkas, were huddled by the road holding up a cardboard sign that said, "Stranded." Obviously, they were seeking funds from passing motorists. This is a very popular spot for such solicitations with everyone from Moonies to unemployed Vietnam vets having appeared there at one point or other. Yet, I never know what to make of the truthfulness of the pleas. I'm sure some such requests are very genuine. However, it does strike me as odd that so many would all wind up stranded at the exact same spot. Several years ago, one of the local TV channels staked out a similiar couple in another part of town. At the end of the day, the couple walked several blocks, got into a parked car and drove to an apartment complex. I wondered how much money could you hope to get in such a situation.