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I woke with the voice of somebody else. A man's voice, deep and rough, a lovely baritone (or so i think). Lovely, because, to my eternal despair, I usually express myself in a squeaky girlish tone that only has one good side: if I really have to make myself heard in a crowd, everybody turns around. In dismay at the high squeal, but they turn, and listen. I use it as little as possible.
So now this voice comes out of me, the next best thing to surgical sex change, cheap. Not that I ever wanted one, but it's so so terribly self-sexy that I have been reading aloud most of the afternoon. Reverberating, vibrating, wow.
(Dylan Thomas. The rhythm of him. And since even without the fever i only understand half of it, it's just pure pleasure.)

This is what's left of the hospital where I got acquainted to real fever. Not-a-spot-of-quiet fever, everything moving, changing, transforming, patterns and colors being born from each other. After 3 weeks, the fever receded, but the walls wouldn't keep quiet. I felt separated from the world. I remember beginning to wonder: would the cello-tape around me ever go away? Would things keep their places again?
I walked out of my room in my nightgown, very slowly. Nobody tried to stop me. Then out of the door, to the nearby forest. I crawled under a small fir, amongst the needles, the low branches making a child's hut. I stayed there for what seemed the longest time, breathing the resin smell, hidden to everybody, trying to understand if reality would ever touch me again.
I was 13 then, and now the ivy has invaded the staircase to the lab.
Later: Not 13, no. 14 at least. This was after the Creta Holidays, and I already had the motorbike I was going to be run over riding...when? maybe 6 months later? A real hospital year, that one.