Both my housemates are ill. It is like living in some kind of perverse Levinasian world, where I am a fragile creature, vulnerable to the violence (ie. violent coughing) of the Other. What's more, their illness is my responsibility - their reproachful, snivelling faces seem to say: "You are not ill. You don't know what it's like. Why aren't you sick? What's so good about you anyway?" They, literally, wish me ill.
A rather sorry state of affairs indeed.
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