good morning. good morning. horsemouth is up and awake. the weather continues to be very mild and horsemouth's lungs continue to be fucked. he sits up in bed with in a slightly fleecy t-shirt and sweaty armpits. there was coffee in the pot already when he woke up (so he just had to add hot water). he's just gone back for seconds.
in a bit a shower. (if he's ill the least he can do is enjoy the luxury of it).
and he is ill. his cough may sound disgusting but he doesn't feel too bad on it. in the old days he would have to get up and throw himself out of the door to get the train to work (coughing all the way to the train, throwing up his breakfast coffee). then he'd have to work. then he'd have to come back. at least he doesn't have to do that anymore.
variously his boss would moan at him for showing up to work with a cough and demand to know whether it was flu he'd had or a cold on the sickness self-certification forms. horsemouth responded with an email that was as near to fuck you as possible.
it's three years since richard wildhare shared a link to chiwonisu's version of zvichapera (such is the accuracy of our externalised digital memory). later on a visit horsemouth played it back to him (convinced he was bringing richard something new that he did not know). it's just one of those great performances where everything just comes together.
four years ago he was meeting with denise and darsavini in the florist's arms (denise was back over for a visit).
horsemouth was wondering about the horsemouthfolk tracks he recorded back in the day and put up on myspace. the gig is far enough away that he's not wondering about it. the cough is altering where his voice is (which is making singing a bit strange).
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