four to go

Experimentally stayed up till ten o’clock last night, reading excerpts from the upcoming best seller

to see if I’d sleep later than three o’clock: suffered the usual wake up times two for Father Nature and three to go, but determinedly rolled over both times and back to sleep until three-fifty-six, so ten to four is six hours. I prefer six to three, which is nine hours, or even seven to three, eight hours. Even so, unless there’s a nap either late morning or early afternoon or both, the eyes start stinging and crossing with sleep by five o’clock afternoons. Truth, my mind hasn’t adjusted, is frustrated by the movable feast of something sleep experts might call my shifting octogenarial circadian rhythm. 

Black and dark here, B&D, and this bar of Xmas chocolate is 85%, goes well with the hot black coffee, and the combo seems to help the mind stir, wake and resume. One cup black, one square dark.

Friday. Sales of Michael Wolff’s book begin in about four hours to a WH tune reminiscent of the song “I am not a thief.” The lyrics will include “fake news,” “lies, lies, lies,” and “I am not mentally incompetent” among others all reminiscent of Gertrude’s line “The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Who’s afraid of the big bad Wolff

Big bad Wolff, big bad Wolff

Who’s afraid of the big bad Wolff

Tra la la la la

DThos+