staring at the ceiling - slow children

i didn't sleep well. after i wrote last night's entry, i lay in the dark, thinking things through.

i've been watching the clock all day. that and texting back and forth with Ms Simone. even the cds i'd taken with me to the munch aren't helping - "baba yar" again, the monochrome set's "volume, contrast, brilliance", thirwell's soundtrack to "the venture brothers" and the gun club’s "miami"... all of it uplifting as buggery and i'm too weirded out to let it lift me up.

the problem is, i lay awake for a goodly chunk of the night, trying to make sense of what i'd seen - i know that cats don't talk. you don't have to tell me that!

and Ms Simone just seems to blandly accept this. just another feline foible - like hairball-barfing and tiny corpses brought to the back door.

i saw a couple of the queerbashers at the newsagents' on my way in this morning. you know how, when somebody's staring at you, you start to run a checklist of what could be wrong? a list of things that might have caught their attention.

staying at Hers midweek means i arrive at work a little less rested than i would otherwise.

early night for this one tonight, i'd say.