Three o'clock again, again.

It's three o'clock in the morning again. Again, again, again. I'm beginning to wonder whether my life isn't destined to be a series of three o'clocks. Right now I'm eating dark chocolate and listening to Nina Simone. At two o'clock I was crying. At two-thirty I poured myself another gin.

I'd like to blame this aimless melancholy on the cold, or the drugs, but it seems to be a function of being awake - endlessly awake - and alone, huddled in the cold of a single bedroom. Still restless, still antsy, still sick, still tired, but hey, at least I'm repeating myself. Staring at the ceiling at the peak of night. Seeing in another tepid dawn. Nina is telling me to break down and let it all out, and it seems like good advice.

Outside the window the air is frigid and I guess things could be worse. But Christ, if I have to see in another fucking dawn...

Not in an existential sense, of course. I can put up with day in, day out, but it's the prospect of watching the sky choke up with colour that makes me want to run and scream and groan. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. No rest for the rest of us. Tomorrow is an early start, and that start is inching nearer. And every time I blink, it's only to open my eyes.

It's three o'clock in the morning, and I think I'm losing my mind.