I do so adore when my pathetic self can get a break from the hell cursed upon me by the world. I am but a sickly victorian boy, lying in my bed, underneath my many sheets and blankets as my father and mother are sick with worry. Or, perhaps, a nobleman in the middle ages, coughing and trembling, high fever making my cheeks rosy as my dear wife cries, thousands of dead rats in the city; a doctor in his mask standing above me and treating me as I wonder, why can't my wife look like that