Three in the morning

Awake at three doing the whole carousel. The roof. Dad, and whether the follow-up in September is a formality or not. The birthday. Dale and the utilisation question he will ask again in six weeks. Whether we are going to do this at all, and the fact that I have now been waiting for an answer to a question I have not actually asked in a form that requires one. It goes round in that order, roughly, every time. I could set it to music. And the specific horror of three in the morning is that each individual item is manageable and the set is not, and at three in the morning you only ever get the set. Biscuit came up on the bed, which he is not allowed to do, and I let him, and he put his head on my shin and went instantly to sleep in the manner of something with no outstanding questions whatsoever. Got up at five, made coffee in the dark, and was completely fine by seven, which is the other thing about three in the morning. It does not survive daylight, so it never gets dealt with, so it comes back.

No. And that is slightly unnerving to read back, because written out it is five things and it has been five things since about June. At three in the morning it feels like an unbounded number.