The world pounds less harshly when you've stocked up on Neurofen from the pharmacy.
Not that I've taken any yet.
Sleep was fitful and angry, pulling myself into bed at three in the morning in the hopes that I would simply fall and not get up for hours.
Insomnia is a clever beast, though, lulling you into thinking that all is well and all of a sudden its seven in the morning and you're up for a drink of water, then up at eight to void the drink of water, repeat cycle every couple of hours.
I finally dragged my ass permanently out of bed late for Maja's recital. I wanted to see it, but somehow trotting in the bright, perfectly warm sun to the pharmacy was as good a Saturday afternoon activity as any, stopping off at the grocery store for steak (which I cooked with too much cumin) and coffee, and surprising myself by nearly skipping past the sneering algerian gang that waits to ambush girls on the corner by the tabac.
Now, moments after reluctantly hanging up on Mr. Pyke and the clever charm of his voice, the neurofen are still on the table in their shiny silver boxes, and the sharp italian coffeepot hasn't been put to heat yet, and the throbbing behind my eyes is down to a manageable ache again.
There is work left to be done before heading out to the sex district with the torontonians tonight, a wander along Montmartres and perhaps a wine-tasting cave.
Everytime I push my mouse along Microshite office, I get another pang, still shaky, but I can push harder than that now.
THank you. Thank you Narcissa and Keg and David and cf. THank you. Your voices this morning were sweet, trilling song.