fever

Not that I feel it. Not that I'd say it. My palpatations are too stacatto for that.
Not that it matters but pressed into my linen are pictures of myself in first flight.

Arms stretched, body arched. I am preparing for lift off. I am cascading off the edge of the sun. These words are illusions. You can see your reflection but you can't make out the detail of your brow.

You are not another. Something other. An Other with an isolated capital like Ours. In big white buildings I plan my defenses and table another paper about change.

These threats are not catagorised. My immune system materialises that which my tongue cannot.