Treaty of Paris, Northern Room and Jack’s Mannequin… alone, this trifecta of shit would be enough to make anyone sick. And although spending hours in an old airplane hanger with thousands of teenagers only aggravated it, I’m sure this virus wouldn’t have cared if I was witnessing Felix Mendelssohn himself performing Sunday night.

No chicken noodle soup in the cupboard, so I settled on tomato. After spending most of Monday fitfully sleeping and heavily medicated, I awoke this morning completely drenched in sweat yet feeling fantastic. The fever had broken overnight, leaving me with a brilliantly vivid dream as some sort of odd calling card.

When your back is broke and your eyes are blurred.
And your shin-bones knock and your tongue is furred,
And your tonsils squeak and your hair gets dry,
And you’re doggone sure that you’re going to die,
But you’re skeered you won’t and afraid you will,
Just drag to bed and have your chill;
And pray the Lord to see you through
For you’ve got the Flu, boy,
You’ve got the Flu.

When your toes curl up and your belt goes flat,
And you’re twice as mean as a Thomas cat,
And life is a long and dismal curse,
And your food all tastes like a hard-boiled hearse,
When your lattice aches and your head’s abuzz
And nothing is as it ever was,
Here are my sad regrets to you,
You’ve got the Flu, boy,
You’ve got the Flu.

What is it like, this Spanish Flu?
Ask me, brother, for I’ve been through,
It is by Misery out of Despair,
It pulls your teeth and curls your hair,
It thins your blood and brays your bones
And fills your craw with moans and groans,
And sometimes, maybe, you get well —
Some call it Flu — I call it hell!

– from “Slams of Life” by J.P McEvoy, llustrated by Frank White; P. F. Volland Company, Chicago, USA; 1919; p. 67.