One of my longest nights of sleep, ever, last night. I can’t say it was a good night’s sleep — I had several interval of sweating like a horse, some congestion and occasional coughing — but I did genuinely sleep for roughly nine and a half hours, and I feel much more nearly alive today. Yesterday I ate only a little, and half-heartedly; I spent almost all day in bed; I couldn’t imagine trying to read, or write, or think very hard. Today I’ve been sitting up since I got up at 7:30; I cooked eggs and [faux] bacon for breakfast, and enjoyed eating it; and although I haven’t undertaken anything very ambitious, I don’t feel as though it would be pointless to try.
It’s not that I feel great — but I feel weak, and ill, rather than comprehensively miserable.