The Plague

My head feels like a pressure cooker; there's crap in in here that keeps growing, pushing against the inside of my skull. My lips feel swollen, my face hot, my throat afire. Right behind the top of my head is a dull ache, waiting, biding its time before it pulls its trigger and splits apart my cranium, sending searing white hot pain dancing through my field of vision.

It's going to be a lovely day, I can tell already.