Peripeteia for the Peripatetic

The vomit never came out, but made itself a concern. Paul couldn't contend with much, he was dripping with sweat and breathing through his nose like some bastard might tell you when everything is going to hell as if it matters how you breathe. He had chosen everything he was wearing from the dryer. Already it felt old and filmy. His imagination tortured him with images of a beach and breeze, sun and sea. White cotton clouds and blue painted doors reminded him of better days, days he lived which seemed like a dream at present.

This was the price. If only it could be exacted at once. No, it would be a couple of weeks of this, then he would wake up one morning and the panic would be gone, like an unwanted guest. He got up from the sofa flinging his hands free of themselves and then realized he had taken 3 showers in the past 24 hours and he was building a tolerance to them. They weren't helping. He laid back down. Paul looked at the stereo and realized he would never be OK with anything he put on. The window showed it was a quarter to four. The night had her twists and burdens, but somehow it was less brutal than the day.

His hair felt like it was falling out. A sure sign of mortality, he invited it.