He took his temperature and when the thermometer read 101.4 degrees, he rubbed his hands together and said, “Time to get down to writing!”
It had been in Paris he last had this sickness, this bug, this Paris Flu. He wrote for days, non stop, driven by what he called his muse. This time, he wasn’t in Paris, but back home in Colorado and through the window he watched tiny flakes begin to fall as dawn poked her nose over the horizon.
Pulling his eyes from the early morning snow shower and toward his laptop, the writing began and flowed, not like a stream or river, but like leaf buds bursting open on next springs greenness in time lapse photography. He wrote it all down while tongues of flames licked his brain.
He had already surrendered his fingers to the fever. His eyes couldn’t even see the keys. His hands moved until the burning broke.
The fever didn’t last very long. Not long enough.