𝔸𝕣𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕖 (@ArchangeI)

I am, in a manner of speaking, extraordinarily glad to be here, back among the living, or at least the reasonably upright and mobile portion of it, after what can only be described as a month-long detour through the sort of bureaucratic nightmare that hospitals specialise in, where the body is treated less like a finely tuned mechanism and more like a particularly stubborn form of paperwork that refuses to file itself correctly. Three times my heart decided, with all the cheerful capriciousness of a minor desk jockey on a coffee break, to simply stop doing its job, as if it had suddenly remembered a prior engagement elsewhere. A now-damaged pancreas joined the fray, along with four compound bone fractures (the sort that make one wonder if the skeleton was ever truly designed for this sort of roughhousing) and a skull fracture thrown in for good measure, just to ensure the occasion had that certain festive air of completeness to somebody's attempt to pen your final chapter. Yet here I am, bouncing back in that delightfully stupid way the human frame occasionally manages, like a rubber duck that has been trodden on repeatedly but retains just enough spring to embarrass its tormentors. Walking pneumonia, that insidious little opportunist, was the uninvited guest that opened the door to the whole sorry procession, inviting in complications with the polite insistence of a door-to-door salesman who knows you’re too polite to refuse. I chose to simply ignore it, and now it will be another two months before I’m operating at anything like full capacity. At present I hover around a most respectable eighty-five percent, which feels rather like winning the lottery after having bet on the wrong horse in a game of poker. All things considered, it’s a rather splendid thing to be breathing freely again, and I intend to make the most of it before the darkest timeline, which we all live in, cooks up its next homicidal surprise for me.