The dishes are piling up, the house is a mess, the work is stacked so high it may simply topple over under its own weight. And I still feel exhausted and pressed under like a moldy something under a rock. A week ago the idea of being sick had a kind of romantic appeal. The thought of being forced to stop working was embarrassingly compelling. Now just the thought of how engulfed I am with life and the passing of time is giving me the wanna-go-back-to-bed-blues.