It's hot. It's almost damp. My upper body reacts as though I were a boy with asthma again; it's not hard to breathe, but this time around it's just weird, as though breathing is just slower than usual.

Waking up is hard too, almost puddling, wishing somebody would have outlined my body in chalk during the night, because that's how this feels. Getting out from a (cold) shower makes me feel as though I've shed a layer of muck off me, but otherwise, it's the same as ten minutes before I stepped into the shower. I will not say I miss the harsh weather than Sweden otherwise presents - frankly, I prefer this tropical humidity to the slight feeling of not knowing whether the thump you just heard indicated that your nostril hairs collectively fell from you, or whether it was from a leg of yours, atrophied off of you - no, not that. I shall keep my nose high enough to try and stay above the clouds. I am not writing metaphorically.

I love my cat. She's cuddly and quite sane during this warmth, readily perched above the flat-screen TV which means two things: a) she craves even more heat than she's getting and b) she's more insane than I thought she were. Worse yet, one of her three reasons to leave the TV is to perch on top of my chest, which means two things: a) that she is more insane than I thought she were and b) kitty's soon soaring through the air. Still, at times, I let her sit on my chest, frankly because it won't do much more harm. And yes, she's that cute.

Once you're up late at night, unable to sleep yet 50% awake, you notice things differently (as if you did not know this).

Mouthy drunks roam the streets, warbling and wobbling to the sounds they make for themselves as screamy toddlers sleep as though they should during the day. The lady in the building across mine who always sits in her double-glazed balcony isn't there now, and her apartment is dark; I guess this makes me fill in for her duties as I gaze to see if any neighbours are following me at this moment; not surprisingly, they aren't. And why should they?

Instead, I enjoy hearing the tapping sound that my fingers make on our flat keyboard. No clicking sound, just tap-tap-tap-tap. And I think of the song I listened to on the way home (apart from The New Pornographers' "War On The East Coast", which I still cannot get out of my head), which is "Arabesque 3" by Harold Budd, off his great album named "Avalon Sutra":

Arabesque 3 by Harold Budd on Grooveshark

It's...old people's music, but good stuff. It's not disappointing - which means it's not like Ice Cube's new single - it's just good. That theme goes throughout the album, which is not as much jazz as it is...Twin Peaks.

I sift through Twin Peaks gifs. There's a tumblr for that, probably among many more, where I've just seen a few gifs of Leland turning into Bob. At first I didn't flinch but then my heightened self - I won't say more awake self - made me realise what the hell I was doing and I had to close the page. And then I started going through them again, only zoomed out, so that Bob wouldn't look as scary. The moral of this story is: if what's scaring you is smaller than it usually is, it's not as scary. I'll probably not read this again. I hope you aren't, at least through your heightened self, whatever I meant by that.

I'm gonna go try and get some sleep now. I know friends in the USA are just getting off work. My Australian friends are just waking up. I just hope I'll go to sleep now, regardless of what I will dream of.