It floored me yesterday. I gave up, succumbed and took to my bed. I don’t know what it is. Ask Google suggests that it might be gastroenteritis. Possibly. I don’t want to eat, and my stomach gripes. And I am weak. I must rest and see what comes but I feel so guilty not working. I dream of Derrida and know that I must write about him but my head is like spaghetti.
