I feel weak and sickly. Low body resistance catching up with the lack of rest.

I'm home. Typing on my comfortable desk while sat on my comfortable swivel chair in the comforts of my comfortable room. And no, I don't mean this in the sentimental way that people who go for camps and get quickly attached do. I speak of my own room, which is dark in the happiest days and has a collection of dead flowers and sheets with all the shades of fire which makes it look alive. And everything else congruent to my character. Like gray walls so comfortingly unlike the clinical white in my Tembusu room (the type of rough white which makes it look like i've been let into the psychiatric ward far too early) and wide windows full of moonlight. And the wooden stool I stole from the kitchen island which holds overdue library books and the paperbacks lined up on the floor in front of an old glass framed Good Charlotte poster with staggered  Post-Its covering everyone else's faces except Billy's.