Fever: Fragment, From An Unfinished Novel

He awoke to fever and uncertainty. They blazed and rattled. He recognized them. They were not new. They were old friends come for a visit. They fit together well: feverish uncertainty. The fever came from his dying liver; he wasn't sure about the uncertainty. His body faltered; his mind quavered. Nothing would cure this, but he knew what would help. He knew that words and whiskey and sleep would soothe him. Food was out of the question, as was effort. The day was already over, but he wasn't, quite. He could still build a fire. He could still breathe. He read a little. Something appropriate. Faulkner. He sipped some whiskey, emptied his mind and let sleep approach. Today was accounted for. He wasn't dead yet. Tomorrow was another matter and none of his business. He was busy in the now. Let go. Trust. Surrender. Drift; sink; sleep. Nothing else matters, anymore. He had seen it all before. Everyone dies alone.
  - mce