Approximate contents of my cranium.
About midday today, I realized the reason I was staring into space and had been for a couple of hours was the fever that seemed to come and go, talking of Michelangelo*. Six or seven tasks awaited my attention, including a few snaps like paying bills, but I couldn’t concentrate long enough to even take them up. In fact, it was a miracle I wasn’t drooling. Then I remembered this intermittent fever-stoopidity thing happened last time I got really sick, probably because I was determined to ignore it. Also hilarious: until that moment, I was planning to drool a little and ignore the fever-stoopidity thing today. Yeah, but now what? It’s hard to do something smart about feeling stoopid – and how do you know when you’re done?
I might not be the first to know.
*Congratulations. You’ve been Prufrocked.
Poor Impulse Control 
Do you dare to eat a peach?
When I was a young man and worked in Manhattan, I killed the enormous amount of time I spent on a bus to and from work by memorizing The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I can still, thirty years later and not so young, recite large sections of that opus.
Now get to bed, stay warm, drink fluids, take vitamin C, and take care of yourself. You’re no good to this firm incapacitated except as a paperweight or a doorstop. Spend a significant part of this weekend imitating a patient etherized upon a table.
Afternoons will be filled with what and coffee spoons? Cigarettes and coffee spoons? I can’t remember.
He measured out his life with coffee spoons. Very precise form of measurement.