I was ill for several days in February. The heat rose and fell as my mind tried to find a straw to hold on to. The blankets ran short of becoming the castle for my tired body, so I adapted my mind to suffer just a bit to feel better later when I got used to the constant changes. This tranquility was compassionate and warm. 
My lungs felt strange. The mucus wasn't forming as it does during common bronchitis. The only thing I could feel was soreness mixed with a strange emotional state of emptiness. No common exhaustion, no motivation to do interesting things, just a content state of existing with what was around me. I decided to focus on something instead of staring at the computer screen, so the quill serenaded me with a story about volume and distance that pushed the paper down where the table should have been. And there they were, my lungs cramped up in a cage and filled with tiny bursting bubbles. Inflamed champagne.