Saturday 2am. I have been awake for the last forty-four hours.

I know what’s causing it: in the absence of external stimuli (been working a lot at home the last two weeks) my brain goes into overdrive and The Dreaming intrudes into the waking world, images and movies dancing over my frontal lobes in glorious HD. Of course, being awake I can’t just accept these sequences as-is; I have to deconstruct them, do manually what the sleeping brain does on autopilot. I’m a manic insomniac maniac. And that’s why I’ve been awake for the last forty-four hours.

Downstairs. Kettle, teabag. Paperwork sprawling like stoned lushes across subway benches on the Bronx A-train of my kitchen worktop. I hate working at home. I’ve worked for myself for five years yet it’s rarely more than a day a week I spend here; clients’ buildings and serviced offices are my usual habitat.

Slurping tea. Check email. Working again this weekend. But I think I can sleep now. Upstairs again.