As the hours pass and the sun warms the South-facing room, it has slowly baked me. Karl said I was a fajita, in my delirium I shout that he is wrong, I am a quesadilla! Or maybe a chimichanga! “You don’t bake a fajita Karl!” I cry. There are long periods of odd and convincing waking dreams, sudden bursts of happiness and hours of frustration. Through it all there is a constant, boring pain.
