This is new.
Last night I discovered that only a really bloody stupid moron would take pills to make them sleep, then force themselves to stay awake till two o'clock, working and writing, long epistolary discussions about how reality sometimes seems like a set of russian dolls.
This morning fell on my head like a bloody sledgehammer. Ten minutes groaning on the side of the bath. Moving like a moth through cement.
If time at six o'clock normally passes thus:
My morning slowed right down to:
Still, it renders you usefully placid with the general public. An average meaninglessly confrontational exchange with a stranger at the |genericjob| became:
he: "What the FUCK are you looking at?"
me: Easy. Big, dr-e-a-m-y smile, and walk away.
Got home at half-four (ray! nearly still daylight), and didn't even make it as far as the bedroom. I think I'd tried to stagger the one foot from the door to the bathroom before I spied the forbidden bliss, the spare bed, calling to me.
I came to (two claws in my scalp and one wet muzzle shoved in my eye, thanks for asking) around two hours later, sprawled over the spare bed, still muffled in my winter coat, eiderdown dragged over me. Hair an interesting new flavour of damp curl. Groggily groggily.
And now it's time for the next pill.