You know, there's something to be said for returning to the flat twenty-six hours after leaving, having in the meantime had such delights as an eight-course meal, rather a lot to drink (damn that mead), interesting entertainment, and a night at Bitch drinking only water in the slow progress of coming back to sobriety, and a Sunday of sleep and relaxation, punctuated by coffee and the occasional cigarette.
Damn. I almost feel calm enough to face work tomorrow without screaming at my alarm clock. Whatever is going on?
Re-reading the Invisibles still. There's always something new there, some insight that makes sense not in the context of the story but in the context of the present scene and people I know. Which shows the power of the brain to find patterns in everything, if nothing else.