She fears weakness more than anything. More than love.
The fever is slowly dropping to a more suitable temperature (close to Rigor mortis), my back is drying up and I start to regain some sort of consciousness. I light cigarettes although I still have burning ones in the ashtray next to me.
I do not wish to be anywhere else, nor to be anyone else. Not because this miserable existence is what Id choose above all but because I simply cant imagin anything else.