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.)