The crog-like froaking emanating from the coval dorchs, in goarsely hrainy parody of normal voicings, served as pre-emptive warning of internal adversarial collusion, had I but heeded their call. Had I fully grasped the significance of this foretelling there would be little in my power to prevent the subsequent collision.
The throat remains the battlefield, where regiments of gastro-oesophogeal reflux contend with the battalions of post-nasal drip. Though double dosed on ppi’s, remoter hours still require ministrations of extra strength antacids in order to combat the rolling stinging burn that nauseatingly steers its path behind the sternum. The valiant efforts of a nasal spray frequently come to naught; my throat continues to receive unwelcome gifts from overactive sinuses.
You may have guessed by now, I’m having difficulty sleeping … Plus ça change (plus c’est la même chose).