On Poor Sleep

I slept poorly last night.

I went to bed at a decent time–decent for me, at any rate–not much past eleven, curled up with Edison’s Conquest of Mars, Garrett Serviss’ 1898 sequel to H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds. read maybe fifteen pages, and then nodded off to sleep.

At three I awoke with a pounding headache for which aspirin and orange juice had zero effect. I sat with Percy, the cat, in the living room for a few minutes, looked at the street lights, mused briefly on the wintry mix that hadn’t yet materialized, and tried to go back to sleep.

Strangely, I dreamed. And it wasn’t a pleasant dream–police in riot gear, brutalizing slack-jawed high school students. Maybe it’s best that I usually don’t remember what I dream–if that’s at all typical, I’d rather not know about the workings of my subconscious.

The wintry mix eventually arrived–no snow, just very cold rain in a fine mist that sucked all the life out of the day. The headache, mercifully, stayed away. Business at work was busier than I’d expected in spite of the mucky weather.

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