Wolfgang groans and puts his head in his hands. Well, that would answer that, but he is being slightly comically exaggerated about it, because he's just complaining, not... actually sick or anything.

There is a cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of him, although given how he is, it could actually be his third or fourth. Either way, it's cold now, up until he touches the rim of it and it abruptly starts to steam again. He shifts, one hand over his face and covering one eye, the other dropping to the table, fingernails running between the grooves. "It's too early to live," he says, voice sleepy-hoarse and low because he's not sure who else is awake or asleep, including pets.