I didn't sleep much last night. Around 10 to 5 I felt myself slipping and then my brain noticed and was so excited by the possibility of unconsciousness that I woke up again. I guess I got maybe 3 1/2 hours in the end. I woke up several times after sun up and then gave up. I read the end of my book, which left me somewhat deflated (White Tiger by Aravind Adiga) - superb writing but it tried too hard in the end. Or maybe not enough. The result is often the same. In any case, I really loved the book up until the last 50 or so pages. After that, I just liked it. I read over what I wrote in those wee hours and found it to be the predictable gibberish I spout at that time of night. I was half tempted to delete the post but decided that while it was predictable gibberish, it was my predictable gibberish. And so now I sit, propped up in a bed seemingly incapable of providing sleep, still in my pyjamas, typing more predictable gibberish and wondering how to avoid the day.
The cat's finished his grooming. It's nap time. He's sleeping on the part of the bed that, should the sun come out again, will bathe him in warm light. His face looks scrunched when he sleeps and his ear twitches every once in awhile. There's no snoring, but sometimes the occasional groan. I try to match the sound of the waves crashing to the rise and fall of his striped breaths but there's no correlation. Each to their own rhythm.