I woke groggy in the guest room.

During the night I left the marital bed because I snored the Wiffe to wake.

Tongue dry, mouth dry.  The result of taking 1/2 a Zispin last night before bed.

Felt dead at first.  A lump in bed.  I’d had a nightmare dream: driving a quad (or somesuch small car) over a cliff in some Alpine landscape.  Big mountains in background, a similar set of shapes on the ground in front of me.  I drove over the precipice.  Sudden fall, over the cliff. I knocked over some books from the table on the left hand side of the bed.  I felt as if I was going over the edge with a few people on board.

I jolted to wake.  Woke up. Turned over and fell back into sleep without difficulty.

How many apples have I eaten in the last few days.  Another now.

What’s my prose style?

I must contact Marion. (I mean Miriam.)