After a few days of being in a Benedryl fog, and spending a lot of time pacing in the steam-filled bathroom, the allergy-rific windstorms outside have mostly let up, and I have use of my lungs again. I approach usefulness now, in time to meet a deadline in a few days. Something is accursed about deadlines: they seem to attract ill-health or crises.
Brian Eno once said something about "no-one takes me seriously as an artist because I always manage to get my stuff in on time!". I should have such problems!