March 14th, 2026. Saturday the 14th feels like Friday the 13th.

Prince gets it right.

The last couple of days I’ve been sleeping. It’s not what I usually write about. But every night I have dreams, most of which are uncomfortable at best, emotionally devastating at their worst. Fights and arguments, career-ending decisions, broken homes, unwanted sexual advances, my mother begging me to kill her. And every single dream is set in my mom’s house, covered in clutter, glutted with refuse. Arguments are punctuated with tripping over things; the weird aggressive grabbing flirt sends landslides of old newspapers and tissues to the floor. I wake up every morning to the taste of codeine, and I’m assuming that it’s to blame for both the sleep and the dreams. The taste of vomit and acidic burning plastics.

Today I’m feeling moderately okay, but my voice is ragged. I’ve tried singing a little bit. I’ve got a reedy little thing left and congestion keeps out the long notes. I know no-one can hear it from the outside but there are clicks and pops as things SHIFT inside my head. Heather’s having a blissful time up in New York, but every time she feels a twinge in her sinuses she’s worried we’ve given her something. “You risked too much for that bar gig.” I don’t know that I can argue against that.