Raw throat pain

Having a throat so sore and a languishing larynx that left him
unable to talk, in a strange sense liberated him. Usually he crammed a
lot of vocal expression into the short wound-down day between the
office and sleep. He spoke of swans and concerts, of philosophy and
read books and the quality of real ale in dusty London pubs. He drank
his own glycoprotein, he coughed up expectation; dry and
passionless.

Silently he composed and sent emails. Soundless syllables resounding
from the square pixelated corners of his monitor. Wrapping his heavy
garment around his aching shoulders, he alternated between chill and
hot rush. Without the sound of his own voice he felt a little
lonely.

"This is what it is like to be a little boy" he thought, even the
twilight slipping into darkness and as he made his way to his room to
lie in the misery of sickness, he thought he could feel the presense of
a carer behind him, following him to cool his fever and stroke his
brow.