There's a cave inside me where the dead will rise up in song

In fact, if removed from an environment of relentless sleep deprivation I am still in a ton of pain, but actually sleep for something between eight and ten hours and have an assortment of vivid high-concept dreams, of which contracting leukemia after being breathed on by my lover who had been magically regressed to a kind of brazen bull-shape wavering with blue fire may have been the most memorable (especially since the last thing I read before bed was not Charles Williams), although the spirit control working its way through medium after medium in an effort to solve its own murder was obviously the most commercial (and probably intended for Sarah Monette). I have that weird light-headed feeling of no longer running on pure cortisol and am concomitantly very tired. According to signs posted on our street last night, the construction is scheduled to continue into September and I don't understand how anyone who lives here is supposed to survive.