Cathedral Ceilings

My throat is very dry and I fear that if I swallow too hard my soft palate will crumble into my mouth. Water is the answer it would seem, and yet is not the membrane of my esophagus now analogous to tissue paper?

Worry is too mild a term for certainty, a certainty that I ail. If Patrick is sick then I am sick, and he spent last night fevered and thrashing in my arms. I do not know whether this mutual illness is the purvey of germs, empathy, or an overzealous interpretation of communal property statutes.

Perhaps if I go home Thomas will make hot chocolate.