My version of hell is one where my mind operates incorrectly. It's one thing to just be more "enthusiastic" than usual about adjectives; for me, any increase over my already taut baseline shoves the whole operation into space. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about a fever-borne state of mind where every physical act is coupled with an imaginary purpose in a dreamscape based on rural Oregon, such that needing to cough correlates to placing a fencepost and actually coughing is digging a hole. It went on like this for ten sleepless hours, and I say ten hours because that is what the clock told me, for that evil place had no relationship to time. I sweated through three pillows. Even under the best circumstances, this is not the body you would choose. Being super wet does not elevate its virtues.
