A day without much sleep can change your mind, open or close it. A little
bit of creative rush towards the end, and then you settle down into a lazy,
dreamlike, floating feeling and at some point, the boundaries between being
awake and asleep blur a little, and then you’re gone. Sleep, after being
shy and playful for a little while, takes you in its hand and squeezes you
until there’s no more thinking to be done, no more sensations to be noticed,
a deathlike state where even dreams don’t come.

A day without much sleep, on a monday, can mean a lack of energy for the
rest of the week. When it happens on a friday, however, it’s usually
followed by another kind of day: A Day Without Pants. A Day Without Pants
is the best kind of day. There certainly is stuff to be done, but nothing
important or public enough to bother putting on pants. You let it shape your
plans for you, this day. You need to go shopping, but in most fine
supermarkets, pajamas are not acceptable. Nor are houseshoes. At any rate,
the walk there could kill you, or at least give you a cold. Best stay in.
There’s still enough there to eat for today, and tomorrow being sunday,
maybe you could fast a day, not eat in order to atone for some wrong. It’s
better than putting on pants, anyway.

Then there’s the night. There was no night last night, it was a road night,
so to speak, a carriage-ride through sleepyland. You have a guilty feeling
that it’s saturday, and there ought to be something to do, somewhere to go.
You scan the local city information-systems for signs of a sleepover, or
pajama party, but nothing surfaces. You say to yourself, I don’t want to
take off my pajamas; maybe if I dyed them black, noone would notice. My
houseshoes? Honestly, how often do you look at a man’s shoes? But that’s
denial. You’re kidding yourself. At some point you give in to the pajama’s
will, as all do in the end.