That secret that we know that we don't know how to tell

It took me until four or five in the morning, but I finally, finally, actually slept for the first time since Sunday night. I dreamed of wax museums and road trips and a long-mysterious murder in a family of British royalty that must have been alternate, because there weren't multiple princesses in the generation after George V and I am not sure the one there was qualified as a Bright Young Thing; I just woke up half an hour ago. The heat had broken by then. The sky looks clear and cool and end-of-summer seaside. I wish I actually wanted to move.

I am not sure what I will or can do with today; at present I am feeling like a snail that has pulled in its horns and is staying that way. I thought I had more time to recover before the HFA's all-night half-marathon—this year, it's boxing movies—but the thought of tomorrow into Sunday being another round-the-clock night just feels awful. I'm still not sure I'm not going back to bed in the next hour. [edit] Definitely bed.

I killed the original last paragraph of this post for Tiny Wittgenstein, who should just go lie on an aquarium beach somewhere with one of those umbrellas you get in tiki drinks. I did my work this week and I performed despite a staggering sleep deficit. I sang. I do not need to feel bad about being tired. Being alive right now is tiring. I am still here.