4:21 p. m. » Sleep and this House

Yesterday I'm sure I lost 10 pounds. I wanted a particular type of crêpe, and as I did what I could to lead myself to a state of being hopelessly lost, I kept an eye open for crêperies (sp?). After walking enough to burn two or three meals and eating nothing (in fear of sustaining zero appetite for that which I craved) I found what I was looking for. I walked for eight hours, stopping only twice for drinks, once for said meal, and once, of course, for the internet.

When I'm not walking, I'm speaking, listening to, or studying French. While walking, I'm typically thinking about French. Overkill. At times, and under this ridiculous sun, I feel more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling before. The thought of moving to a city where I speak not a word of its language, while taking lessons for another, while still speaking another in the apartment sounds, well, it sounds like death. I'm certain of it. I'm, unfortunately, beginning to give in to my initial suspicions that someone here is trying to kill me.

My sleep is being spread over longer lots of time, and is, thus, thinner. I remember my dreams. The last was blessed with the presence of Emily Rock and someone from my last job and it took place at IBM just after leaving Allen Carmichael's bedroom where my old neigbor and his ex-girlfriend (neither of whom I've ever really spoken with) were playing some strange sort of slumber party game. Also these loud noises throughout the night are so not necessary. The theme my dreams share is that I'm consistently in a state of alarm and danger because I feel that I'm doing something wrong or that's not allowed.

I awoke suddenly just after falling asleep last night because my door burst open and I realized that I'd been hearing bits of scratches. I saw the cat, which can evidently open doors, and said something, half asleep, in German I guess. The cat retreated. When I share space with the feline species, it's inevitable that I get the feeling that it's me versus them.

Earlier in the day, five year-old Emma came into my room while I was napping, and she told me she wanted to sing me an English song. She proceeded to sing the alphabet -- in French. I told her it was beautiful, thanked her and fell back to sleep.

It's fucking hot here, but I don't mind. I swear to God this house is trying to kill me, and after reading what you just have, you may agree, but still -- I can't believe how bad my handwriting is.

I promised to tell you about Cécile and Serene, but that can wait. Obviously there were more pressing matters to discuss.