So, it's 3.15 am on monday.

Should I be sleep? Yeah, I should.

Am I tired? Yeah, plenty.

Did I finished my work so I could go to bed at a comfortable hour? Hell no.

I'm a procrastinator. (Sounds like some kind of crime, and that's not very far from the truth).

Plus, as my sickness turned out to be bacterial, the doctor prescribed me with enough antibiotics to end sickness in a small country. South Africa, perhaps. So I've got the whole works: headache, general distress, the hunger of a wolf and the cramps of a sick camel. Constant sleepiness. In adittion to that horrible bitter taste that comes when you take too much medication.

Whatever.

And instead of finishing up the last 10 motherfucking pages of the translation, I chose to open my page and update a little (as if I hadn't written in years). It's just that I've been having the most vivid, cryptic, strange dreams. First I must mention that lately I always dream with the ocean, every single day. I always dream about the ocean but I'm never in the ocean. I'm either watching it or trying to. I don't know if this means something.

In the first dream, I arrive to the shore and for the first time ever, the sea is not clear (it's always dark but always beautiful). This time, the sea is full of dead bodies and debris, and covered with black puddles, like those in a petroleum leak. I look to the right and I see, far away, the coast of Cuba. If I look to the right, I can see the coast of Miami. And suddenly a nuclear missile crosses the sky and hits Cuba with a horrific sound. Then, a similar missile crosses back from Cuba and hits Miami. The war has started.

-------cut-------

We (Belendor and I) have been living in this house for some time now, but right now he isn't here. And we are not alone. It's this big, big house divided into apartments, and in the rest of them live the members of Belendor's band. Right across the hall lives one of them, who is really nice but serious, not quite my friend but always very nice and sweet to me. He has a wife and one little kid.
There is also the bass player, a really short shabby looking guy, not quite unpleasant to look at. We are just hanging around at my house, talking, and I know he wants to make a move on me and I decide I won't let him even if he dares to.

He shows me a handle that is screwed to the wall, at about the waist height. He says "We put this here because, when Belendor lived here with his ex-girlfriend, he was late every day for rehearsal because he and [the name of the girlfriend, I don't remember] were always having sex. Seriously, we came to knock on the door and we could hear their screams and everything. So we decided to put this handle here so she could grip it like this, see? (and he gripped it, bending from the waist) and he could fuck her from behind. It really worked, since they were doing it standing it didn't last so long. But they got at it every single day. We could still hear them."

So I get all sad, because then I confirm he really doesn't have a low sexual impulse, he used to fuck his ex-girlfriend every day, that he really doesn't want me. Ever. I don't really start crying, but tears come trickling down my cheeks. My boyfriend doesn't find me attractive. This guy, the bass player, does find me attractive, but I want Belendor to want me the way he wanted his ex-girlfriend.

So I go out and I find the other guy, the married one, sitting outside his apartment. He looks at me and I know (as you know in dreams) he knows why I'm sad, and he would like to comfort me but he doesn't dare to because of his loyalty to Belendor and because her wife is very jealous.

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Whatever. It still makes me sad, but I have to get over it. We're not teenagers anymore, I can't expect him to have as much sexual desire as he did when he was eighteen. But we're not fucking eighty, for gawd's sake.

Anyway, back to work.