Sick. Written yesterday but still applies.

I've been sleeping all the time, for the past three days, or lying in bed reading War and Peace. Tolstoy is unparalleled in capturing the essence of his characters, who could easily be walking around today, in simple, succinct words. I admire him, yet wonder if he was alienated from others due to his understanding of the true nature of people. It's nine at night, my stomach aches, and I've barely eaten anything the past few days. The only things I can keep down are boring, white starches. All I have to comfort me is Russian literature about one of the greatest wars of all time, and a half-doughnut shaped grey pillow. I woke up at five-thirty this afternoon, and seeing that it was going to rain, as it has the last few evenings, I took my clothes down from the lines and ironed them. There is a Tanzanian horror story about mango flies laying eggs in your wet clothing, so we are told to iron everything. I sing while I iron and wash, as to try to drown out the dogs that howl, crying of manginess and loneliness. It's raining now, and though I am warm in my blanket, the power flickers and the tin roof drums heavily. The light around me is amber and gold, and I pull down my transparent white mosquito net, which covers me with protection for another night. We've left so much this year: friends, family, two homes, one in Charlottesville and one in Concord. There's very little to do here in the afternoons, and I'm forced to confront the thoughts in my hear, and sometimes I find that I disappear into my mind, under sheets and away from the do-gooders that talk around me.