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Oh, the fuzzy muzzy muddle-headed mediation of a cold! Right in the middle of this scurrying season, the flow of life congeals, senses blanketed in thick subterranean retreat, jello in the veins and brain.
Though people come and go throughout your day, forget your appearance–nothing makes your puffy self attractive. Red rims every feature of your face, your cracking voice seems to be emerging from an antique bathosphere, and the few movements you care to make are like a stop motion animation with the motion mostly stopped.
But there is comfort in withdrawal after a week of intense effort. And perhaps at day’s end, you can, in your pajamas, gather sorrel from the garden, roast garlic and shallots, chop the last potato, sip that savory soup, mix a toddy of brandy-addled ginger tea, climb into bed with an old-fashioned whodunnit, blessed by the faint but detectable scent of a nosegay of muguets you plucked. And that’s nothing to sneeze at.