There is a vile illness upon me. I know not it's nature, but I feel it coursing through my veins with intent unmistakably malicious.

The only symptom as yet apparent is a mild languish. An extra hour of sleep, once caught, brings with it not vigor, but an ever-growing grog. The only reward the night hours bring is a respite from the memory of ever having awakened refreshed.

I wonder at its cause.

Is it poison, perhaps? A dread, unknown toxin unleashed upon me by some villain's odious design? And if so, to what end?

With that very thought comes a great rage. Show thyself, insidious fiend! Do not be content with mere sneaking and wheedling! Face me as an opponent worthy of my wrath and attempt to earn your victory with honor!

My anger causes the dust to stir, but brings forth no answers.

Whatever brings this cursed discontent shall suffer greatly at my hands. I shall repay this malaise one-hundred-fold when the culprit stands thus revealed.

My nose is also starting to run a little bit.