Things were still a bit muddied. Still a bit like wading through grotty swampwater simply to form a coherent thought in his head. But, Jonothon supposed, at least that was the worst of it. Sitting in a fog unable to figure out where most of himself had gone was, by and large, not as terrible a fate as sitting in a fog, slowly being poisoned away by the devil he'd made a deal with.
Which didn't make him feel any better, admittedly, but he was fairly positive that until he managed to recover from whatever this was, he wasn't going to feel better. Hell, he still felt ashamed and more than a little bit stupid. And 'better' wasn't something that Jono particularly excelled at. Not even when he wasn't reduced to however much of himself was left.
[OOC: For they who know who they are! And phone calls, if anyone is feeling up to the most monosyllabic conversation Jono has ever had.]
- Hannibal's House, Friday Evening