Last night I slept fitfully: head full of foreboding nightmares and body sweaty and heavy under a blanket of dread. When I awoke I was groggy and upset.

I dreamed that Justin had started bumming cigarettes off of Dan and was smoking. He stood outside of the squalid, low-income high-rise apartment where we were living on this very rickety cement balcony. I walked out to stop him, and he turned around, exhaling angrily, and I could feel the support beams and the cement cracking and buckling and giving way.

The other part of the dream was that I needed to learn how to operate a space shuttle, because there was an emergency draft for NASA. Justin’s friends Rainbow and Brad were astronauts, and I asked him to get them to teach me what all the buttons and knobs were for, but he said they were too far away and I’d have to read the manual, which got stolen during a break-in.

I think some of this came from spending about two hours in my sewing room yesterday cleaning and sewing while listening to the Trainspotting soundtrack on repeat. The peculiar mix of domestic tasks and heroin-associated techno seems to have messed with my brain. Impending menstruation probably isn’t helping, either.

Today’s photo is a totem: meant to conjure thoughts of a more innocent time, before I’d ever imagined paying money to go to a theatre and voluntarily expose myself to visuals of a dead baby crawling on a ceiling or an addict swimming in a toilet. Damn you, Irvine Welsh, for your compelling yet monstrous storylines!