...there is something new about my hands, a certain way of
picking up my pipe or fork. Or else it's the fork which now has a certain way of having itself picked up. I don't know.Jean Paul Sartre, Nausea
No sleep. Work. No sleep. Shopping. No sleep. Feverish children and husband. More no sleep. Laundry. And dog. Still no sleep. At some point everything starts to slide around and look strange. Who needs acid when you can just go for a week without sleep? Much cheaper. Not even illegal. Probably not safer.
At last. Saturday slides away without being noticed. And she dreams in French.