Overgrown and Breadsticks

So sore I am from last night's pounding that to even attempt any significant physical movement would be suicidal. Indeed when I did, out of necessity, try to move one of my limbs earlier, a wave of truly immobilising pain rushed across my person and splayed me against the rocks of stupidity. Thus here I am, face up on my bed with my eyes peeled to the ceiling and my ankles throbbing. And I'm in no position to publish the latest article, not least because I don't have access to any writing materials or a computer. So really, I can't do anything but lie here. How unfortunate.

I wouldn't mind if one of you would float above me on the ceiling at the moment, actually. Spice things up a spot. We could have a decent chat about all things improbable. No pressure, but hmm. It would be nice.