I'm about to march my ass down to the apothecary for a dreamless sleep potion, you know that? If I could make myself one, I would. I did fairly well in potions, I could do it. I'm tired of being tired. I want to be mad at you about that, because this is your fault, you and your hero complex, but I can't because I just want you to come home. I don't want any more negativity clouding this situation, so I'm going to lay here in my bed and pray exhaustion claims me tonight. It has to win out eventually, right?

I can't even imagine what you're doing right now. There's so many options and I feel like none of them are particularly good. I'm overthinking it, likely, but I can't help it, too much free time, not enough distractions. I never though fog would drive me insane. Maybe I should have a glass of whisky tonight, maybe that will help. I have a bottle under my bed I nicked from August. I'm going to give it a try. The worst that could happen would be I wake up with a headache tomorrow, and that's just an excuse to stay in bed, I suppose.

Cheers, Love.