I am sick as a pup. Lungs again, blast them! Why can’t they do as they are supposed to do and allow proper breathing?
Is it a conspiracy, an assault by the body upon the spirit? If so then it is rebellion pure and simple. Stupid lungs! If their revolt is successful then they themselves will perish.
Or is it in the natural state of affairs when an adult is surrounded at all times and everywhere by hordes of squealing adolescents?
No doubt some virus has taken up in those lungs, there in the darkness to be fruitful and multiply. No doubt that my ancient body is even now marshalling up those little machines that God in His mercy has placed in the pinnacle of His creation—armies and legions and hosts of anti-bodies and white blood cells.
This is war. And I will win—as I have always won. As I always will win—until the last battle. Then it will be a matter of putting my affairs in order to prepare to see the face of the Carpenter.
But not yet. Not yet.