Reset Forty-Eight, Day Forty-Six

[rejectomorph]

Sunday I was up and down, in and out of bed, several times, spending much of the time in a state that wasn't quite sleep and wasn't quite waking; that place where dreams and fancies, hopes and memory, all mingle indiscriminately in a mélange that would make you fear you were going crazy, if you weren't convinced that you already are. But I became fully awake for a while in midafternoon, the first truly balmy hours we've had in months, and I opened the windows and the big sliding door and let the warm air flood the stuffy apartment. It felt luxurious. Maybe that's why I couldn't quite bring myself to deal with actual reality, and let fantasy, soon forgotten, drown my thoughts. Now it's as though there'd been no day at all. Maybe there wasn't.

Today I suppose I'll have to deal with reality, as there are bureaucrats I must call. They seem to be unable to enter into my fantasy world, so I'm obliged to accept their reality, such as it is. Naturally I'd rather be asleep, but there it is. People keep insisting that attention must be paid to all that stuff that is said to be real. I suppose I'll have to eat again too. How annoying. Every time I eat something I end up needing to shop for a replacement for it. Such an endless to-do about things. It's no wonder my hair is turning sort of grayish. It's enough to drive me to drink. Then I have to replace that too. I can't win for losing. I guess I'll go to sleep now.