Cold. Rain. Sinus infection. The maid is cleaning the room, so I am downstairs in the lobby. Waiting until I can go upstairs and lie down. Perchance to sleep.
And so it’s time to write. There is nothing quite like sinus infection dreams: a rat race of thoughts, going nowhere, in a circle, shards of ideas, and always doomed.
It’s hard living with that brain, and not being able to escape it in sleep. . . .
At least I’m in an interesting place on this planet.