There's nothing like a cold to whisper intimations of mortality. Call me a hypochondriac for sure, but at times like these a black hole swallowing solar systems, galaxies and bloody useless viruses seems a real winning idea. Does the promised new heavens and new earth and restoration of all things so beloved of biblical authors and Jürgen Moltmann include the resurrection of these bloody little things that crawl into unsuspecting available orifices and imbalance human existence?
Okay, so there's always someone worse off. Yeah right. So I care? Through a fog of schnozz and pressure on my eyeball that makes me feel like Mad-Eyed Moodie with a hangover I wonder if I really want to know. I bet Picasso really had a cold when he vomited Guernica onto canvas - it has nothing to do with Hiroshima. Or whatever.
So I think I should go out and blow up the universe, or something. But I haven't got the energy.
Blimey. Here's hoping The Creator never gets a cold.
Someone pour me a whisky.
