I thought I'd take a day off from the increasingly onerous task I've set myself of blogging about yesterday and do something else, like I don't know, like learn 1-10 in Turkish, or in compiling a 'previously on' omnibus edition of yesterdays into a 'This is all about last week' piece, or, have some fun for once.
Writing of Y. means starting each morning looking back. I thought I'd give it up.
Different as days are, they seem to conspire to be like one-another, to pass in a blur, to amount to something only by their accumulation of experience and progress. That dazzling day of transcendent moment makes it's own entrance and didn't show up.
But I needn't have worried.
I can write about sleeping.
Slept late, fell asleep in the tub as I thought about giving up - the yesterday blog not opening a vein, had a doze, listened to music and napped, ate and had a post-prandial snooze, woke myself up snoring as the movie ended and went to bed late, so started sleeping again earlier Today which doesn't count.
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