I don't really know what really kept me up until 2.30am.
I was hot.
I was cold.
I was thinking about the last moments of Harvey Milk (am finishing his biography - the moment he saw Dan White with a gun and must have thought 'oh no!").
I was thinking of the last moments of OJ Simpson's ex-wife and her friend (am watching American Crime Story - what terror).
I was reliving the emotions of our Brazil trip.
I was excited about doing pecs at the gym in the morning.
I was singing Shirley Bassey's After The Rain to myself again and again ('after the rain has gone something inside me is dying for you').
I was thinking about the intense one-man theatre show I'd seen with Dan and Michael earlier that evening, and one of its monologues: who are we afraid of disappointing in life? Ourselves? Others? (who are they and why?).
I was worried my phone battery was going to die (it did the night before, I couldn't explain it, no alarm that morning, it made me late for work).
M thought I was asleep as I was very still, but in my mind thoughts and melodies were racing through, one taking over the next; in my body my senses on high alert. There seemed to be no end to it, but sleep did win over, without me being conscious of it.
Normally I realise it's coming because I get a spinning sensation (like my bed is flying through a space tunnel) or I start having work ideas (which I have to jot down quickly) or I start thinking ridiculous thoughts (could I get Chaka Khan to sing at my 10th wedding anniversary, wouldn't that be a nice surprise if she just rocked up in the pub we've hired and sang us our song?).
Tonight, will you sing me lullabies?