it clings as tightly to me as women do to my loins. At every second the breath I draw may be my last. I shake uncontrollably, and in my anteroom twelvescore maidens weep, for who will sexually please them now that I am inconvenienced by fate and some free-floating viral terror? Outside my chamber window throngs of concerned citizens throw bouquets of roses at my front door and cry "Vive le kevboh," and their only thought is of my health. My phone rings; it must be another world ruler, calling to inquire if he may send his personal physician to aid me. Of course, I must decline: my own riches can yield me medical service vastly superior to any that global power can acquire.

On my brow glistens the merest drop of sweat. My fanmaid notices, and moves her large silk fan more quickly; breezes stir the strand of hair that lies across my face.

If any of you wretches have wondered at my absence, you now know what plagues me. Soon enough, however, I will be hale again, and perhaps I might feel limber enough to accept games again, or visit one of the local harems founded in my name.