Perhaps it was the phlegm. It could be the fact that it is hot and humid outside while only being the 17th of March. It could be the steady decompression from the whirlwind trip to Miami. Whatever the primary cause, I started my holiday this a.m. burdened with an ineffable heaviness. This condition appears now in hindsight as a perfect disposition for Kurkov's Death and the Penguin. There is a philosophical calm, almost Stoic to Kurkov's prose. The world is going to shit but the spring dawn still encourages contentment. I found this necessary.