fml

Unable to sleep but able to cough. Pitiful petty puffs of smog spew out of his throat at irregular intervals, smothering his chances of decent rest. He’s not unhealthy, or sick in any dire way; he’s merely afflicted with the wimpiest of ailments, one that won’t garner him any respect or sympathy, one that’s impossible to live around, and one that threatens to infect others with ever coerced spurt. The throat, lungs, feel no different after the cough – unlike other healing bodily reflexes this one is entirely useless. So he takes drugs. And he stresses out. And he coughs.