Or: Sleep-deprivation is one helluva drug.

Blackness. I see some parts of the nearby apartment houses lit by street-lights. The sound of X sleeping in the back, almost drowned-out from the muffled bass-drum emanating from our alcoholic neighbour. I'm excavating every possible orifice of the Internet, feeling like I'm stalking from checking out pics by Holy Fuck on flickr, discussing how Rupert Murdoch will make more money if Obama wins than McCain, checking my e-mail, discussing how Texas has brought a law making it OK for teachers to carry concealed weapons in school. Trying to think of how to get people to join Brightkite, realising only geeks hang out there. Thinking about watching "Withnail & I" with Björn, X and anybody else who would like to in the near future. Or would that coincide too much with Friday?

Alcoholic neighbour is at it again: peeing and not flushing. I can hear every drop hit the water. Plop. Drop. Then his heels carrying weight from what I hope to be the bathroom but I think may be his bedroom where there's a bucket with a mic and an amplifier connected to increase those sounds. Walking about. Stomp. Stomp. I'm going mad.

Thinking about something else is good at this point. X and I are reading Rickard Flinga's "Iskallt och stenhårt", a book about his 20 years in Texas prisons, most of which were spent on the isolation ward. He thought long about what to generally think about in order not to go insane or depressed, and came to the conclusion that he had to kick off some goals, have some sense of urgency. Do something other than mull over lost chances and wasting more of his life to crime. That seems to have worked, apart from him turning to religion. He stopped being a gang-banger and turned religious.

My back is creeping. My throat tells me to drink tea. No way. No. I'm hungry. Go eat? No. I feel like a frisbee has entered my mouth at high speed and has been lodged for weeks. No thrall to retrieve it. I've really not opened my mouth for hours, little wonder. My teeth are clean. Not according to chewing-gum commercials, of course.

I'm more energetic now than ten minutes ago but my body hates me. WORK, damn it! JUST STAND UP. DO SOMETHING. But naught. Bastard body. I've trained it but still it treats me like Uncle Monty's oaf.

Yoga helped. Silent, ninja yoga. X's still sleeping. I've a hard time to decide whether to eat or try to sleep. What a fucking non-existent problem, really. Children are dying from starvation in Africa. That's what my bullying junior level teacher told me when I wouldn't eat. I Google her name. She lives on the western shore of Sweden. I can envision her face before me, turning into a beast. She no longer scares me. She no longer interests me. She's been a bucket of despair and hatred for long, but is now empty. I like the feeling of something that once scared me, loathed me and filled me with so many negative feels is now awash in a sea of tranquility on my part; I've processed it and moved on.

More yoga.

Our neighbour is starting to play something that resembles LFO. If that were only the case. Sleep deprivation can bring about goodness, too.

Now yoga has pushed my body back into sanity; it's as if I've been standing in line to become pithed but escaped at the last minute. I feel more relaxed, stronger, more in balance. Is this a high in my glibness?

No more minute-by-minute retelling of my do's right now.