One day, I will sleep enough.
Until then, I'm running on coffee, nicotine, and trying to stop my brain.
Work likely won't be fun.
Waiter! Get me a place to sit in the sun, a copy of the Guardian, two hundred of your finest cigarettes, a very large drink, and an emergency lobotomy.
This year, as with last, things are all piling up in my head, concrete blocks around my trains of thought. I need to find time to write, and soon. I'm not going to get as bad as last year. I won't let myself.
But these things always happen together, and always at this time of year.