Day 157: Blancmanging

The sky is a fiery black phantom; silver clouds shiver across aphotic night. Foul-limbed birds slumber in crooks of trees. Cars howl down murky lanes. Street sweepers trudge the crunching gravel. I limp doorward, synapses stuttering from onset migraine, nauseated, senses overloaded, concepts jostling and vomiting up into consciousness, mind a fetid roiling marshland, vision blancmanging, but shift ended and heading for home.

Day off tomorrow. Day off. Blessed day off. Going to stay in bed. Play my Switch. Read Naomi Klein. Pour over New York Times. Get up eventually just to make coffee, walk to the shop for croissants in grubby clothes. Wait around for Fran and then order takeaway and watch noisy television in bed. Get takeaway on the covers. Put takeaway leftovers aside for later. Do glorious elastic excessive nothing, and nothing, and more of nothing, and lie in tangled blanket lair.

But first: sleep.