I have not been sleeping. Not much. And not at the regularly scheduled hours. So, my head is pounding, and I’m a little sick. Well, what do I expect? I haven’t been feeding my mitochondria, and that means every cell in my body is more or less hungry and cranky.

Two O’Clock in the morning. And that should have left me a couple of hours of sleep, even before crazy-writer morning. Nope. Just a whole lot of pretending to be asleep.

I made it through the day, came home, and crashed.

Somebody tell me that’s normal.

I think I may be slipping into the visual end of things, the sit down and doodle until you feel better end.

I have a blank canvas just sitting here waiting for me to come up with something decent–or not so decent–to put on it. It’s bigger than what I usually do. Which is probably part of why it’s been sitting here for so long. And some paints that are probably almost, nearly, mostly still good somewhere in the basement.

And I have a vague idea of what I’d like to paint. Trees. Sorta. Anthropomorphic trees, but not in that comic-strip/wizard of oz kind of way.