A baffling little ditty of no discernible heritage. Written in one fell swoop and un-betaed, you have been warned.

A Swollen Heart and a Work of Art

There is a frankly uncomfortable swelling of the organs involved.

That doesn't quite sound the way I intended it to. I mean the internal organs. The heart, the lungs. Possibly the liver as well; it is a condition not unlike inebriation, after all.

The heart swells until it is pressed tight to the rib cage; the bones will leave indents in the soft red flesh and for hours afterwards the heart will be sore with the bruises. Meanwhile, the walls of the lungs thicken, allowing less air to pass through them, until breathing becomes difficult and a rasping, hacking cough an inevitability.

I suppose it is the lack of air that causes the light-headedness, the sense of floating. Perhaps that has something to do with the odd passage of time as well: the way it will suddenly surge forward only to stumble and stall at the worst possible moment.

I would like to explain my symptoms to someone, have them diagnosed by a professional. Seek medical attention, as the saying goes. But I am the most qualified professional I know. Self-diagnosis may be frowned upon but, in this case, I feel that there is little to be gained from a second opinion. Unfortunately.

I say unfortunately but I don't really mean it. Well, I do in the sense that this entire situation is unfortunate and more than slightly absurd. But somehow it is addictive. Somehow, the idea of life without all this hacking and choking and staggering of timelines seems horrendously empty and dull.

Speak of the devil. She's just arrived. Tracking mud across the carpet as per usual. The perfect time for a demonstration. Pay attention now: here comes the heart, beating furiously, ballooning to fill what feels like my entire chest cavity. And now for the lungs, the trachea. Here comes the cough. God, is it difficult to look at her and breathe at the same time. And of course she wants to talk.

"Are you alright, Artemis?"

"Yes, fine, thank you."

"You look a little peaky, are you coming down with something?"

"Nothing new, no."

She's raising her eyebrows, a common response.

"Right, well, why don't I just give you a quite boost to make sure. The last time you got sick you threw up all over my new uniform."

Thank you for the reminder, Holly. So kind. Though, indeed, the Night of the Projectile Vomit is a perfect example of time's treacherous ways. I know that in reality the worst lasted only a few hours but nevertheless it felt, both to me and to her, like several days. You can ask her, she'll agree.

"Please, don't remind me."

"Oh, don't get all embarrassed, everyone gets sick. Here, let me fix you up."

If only you could, my dear, if only you could.

Now her hands are on my face and time is trying to make a fool of me again. But her hands are like works of art, have you noticed? Clever, practical, and oh-so-very-soft works of art.

I believe that my favourite thing about art is how it takes time by the collar and forces it to lie still. It is timeless and, in its presence, you are as well. You are free to simply look and look and look until your eyes are full; until your heart, your lungs, your very veins are brimming; until the image of it can never again leave you because you are absolutely saturated with it, to your very atoms.

To tell you the truth, it's not just her hands. Everything about her is a work of art.