I slept and tried to write all day to day, and got nothing much done, except half an interview for work, that sucks because when my head hurts I can’t string together words that are coherent, never mind pretty.
Outside, there is a slow rainfall of cool, fat drops, with room enough to walk between them, if one wanted to. I want to want to, but I just feel glum. Even Milo and his toy car couldn’t get me out of doldrums in which I find myself, I don’t think.
I should work, but my vision feels tunnel-ish, and instead, I’m going to turn out the light, and let the BBC overnight service on NPR lull me to sleep.