My sleep a sickly child, white-faced, fevered, unable to keep the covers on. Night the physician at my bedside, black bag open but he uses no instrument except his light hands to examine my condition; touching hot skin, agitated limbs, lifting an eyelid, gently prising open the mouth-rim to see the sticky tongue and the throat’s arch; reaching within to feel the beat of madness; the pulse in the vein of dreams. A little too fast; a little too strong, counted against the long sane hours of the clock. He divulges nothing to me but confers in whispers to the trees at the window. There is no medicine, no treatment for the disease of human time except their magic.Birth sign: Libra
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