Doct. Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Macb. Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Doct. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs: I ’ll none of it.
--That Scottish Play, act 5, scene 3
While I no longer feel like I might perish in a heap of pathetic phlegm, I still lack the will to deal with my filthy house. My goal for this weekend is to vacuum and, in realted news, shave the damn cats.
Also, next book I write (assuming, of course, such a thing ever comes to pass) simply must be called "thick-coming fancies." Seriously. Marketing would love it.