Out Of Time

Enjoyed a distinctly Proustian moment earlier this evening. No, I wasn't munching on a Madeline. I'm referring to that bit in the opening of Combray where Marcel talks of the disorientation of waking up and not quite knowing where you are in time and space - or who you are even.

I think I knew who I was, but when Noi got back from an outing with Siew to find me crashed out on the floor and woke me, I had no idea of the where and when of things. It took me a couple of minutes to remember I'd been listening to Her Majesty The Decemberists (terrific album) and was waiting for Noi to brew the cup that cheers when Morpheus overtook me to deep effect. The ravell'd sleeve of care had most definitely been knitted up, I can tell you.

Isn't sleep a wonderful thing? I just wish I had more of it.