Fever

Recently, my head ached until I couldn't imagine going on.  Twice.  

Like you, I never once thought of anything but living.  And loving life.  

This isn't saying much, really.  There's nothing of note or moment in a simple biological imperative.  

What beauty is there in clinging to the only thing you've got?  

Like when people talk about living for today.  As if any of us had anything else.  

 While living, we suck the marrow out with Whitman and the Soggy Bottom Boys.   That's all there is.  So . . . What?  

Do we join Poe at the end, and rejoice in that as well?  

"Thank Heaven, the crisis, the danger is past . . . the fever called 'living' is over at last!"