One cheerful spot in the day was when I went out to the mailbox at dusk, and discovered that fog was forming. This was not brainfog, of which I have an abundance, but actual fog, i.e., condensation, in the air. It wasn't very thick fog, but it was noticeable, and it's been so long since I've seen any that I was both astonished and delighted. The valley used to get fogs frequently every winter, but in recent years they have grown very rare, so this was a great surprise. I considered putting on my real shoes and walking down to the end of the block, but my ingrown toenail was having none of that, so I just sat in the backyard and inhaled it for a while.
Later there was a sandwich for dinner, and Internet for dessert, and lots of thoughts about lots of things which I've since completely forgotten. But I did just remember that when I woke up the second time, the first thought that came into my mind was about Dave Prichard, a metal guitarist (Armored Saint) who has been dead for about thirty years now. It seems very odd that I would think about him at this late date. I met him once, probably in 1984, in a different world. I rather liked him. I don't think he was meant to be dead now any more than I was meant to be in the mini-metropolis. The world is quite askew.
Oatmeal and unsweetened chocolate milk. Time to try sleeping again.