Hmm. Two hours' sleep. Not sure how well I'll function today. Woke at two, with sleep just vanishing behind its red curtain. Got up, washed the dishes, put on laundry. If I'm to be sleep deprived later today, all the more reason not to let the chores steal a march on me.
Now it's nine o'clock. Milk-white sky: not a breath of wind. A perfunctory caw from an unseen crow. The spin of the washing machine, finishing off its third load. I close my eyes and sleep surges up: my head nods. I open my eyes and type again. There's a dream off the starboard bow, a dream of building this house into something beautiful, and crows walking gravely through it. Ah. That's George MacDonald: the raven librarian. Corvids do walk with their hands behind their backs, usher-like. The Spanish is getting away from me, I can't keep up with myself; what's to do?
Perhaps to bed again. Just for a bit.