Sitting around in the apartment, doing contract work, whittling down what precious little weekend I have been afforded in between my two mega-work-weeks.

Here's what happened last night, and it still confuses and upsets me: at 4 in the morning (new time), I was woken by what I took to be gunshots. I then heard someone engaged in a heated argument. I don't think they were actually gunshots, but they were fucking loud, whatever they were; when they repeated 15 minutes later (four or five quick BANGS! in a row), the entire building seemed to shake. I think someone was breaking through a wall with a sledge hammer. (That's not a joke. That's actually what I think.)

Anyway, here's the confusing and upsetting part: I didn't do a goddamned thing. I was so panic-stricken by my upon-waking assessment of either gunplay and/or murder, that I literally sat in my bed and shivered, convinced that someone was going to try to break into my apartment with whatever the hell they were hitting the walls with. Whatever was going on (I think it was happening in the apartment directly below mine), it continued sporadically until about six in the morning and then it stopped. My fight-or-flight instinct stayed on "flight" i.e. "stay the fuck away from anything to do with this" until about ten a.m. today.

Normally, potential gunshots + angry shouting = call the fucking police, moron, doesn't it? I'm pretty disappointed in myself.

Having now completed the first five extremely enjoyable days of Sarafinapalooza 2009, I am padding about the homestead trying to get through significantly more webworks than I had banked on when receiving the assignment a week ago. The ground remains gritty underfoot. I think one of the principal reasons I identify with the cast of Lost so much is that I, too, live on a beach. Perhaps when Seasons 1 and 2 come out on blu-ray I will import a small sandbox and play in it. I could make a smoke monster out of old socks, and an Egyptian statue out of Zam.

Six hours later, and I'm done.