Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sleep. It's a powerful thing.
Slept close to nine hours again last night, all locked in tight here on the side of my hill alone. And could've gone back to sleep some more. The place where I was visited by robbers not that long ago.
Go figure.
Can count the nights on one hand that I've slept anywhere even approaching eight hours since we moved to London in February. Actually, since we left our house and I left my job in Washington last August, just over a year ago.
Loving that bed. Can't wait for tonight.
This behavior begs questions.
Am I sleeping more because I'm depressed, a classic sign of it? Am I sleeping more because I'm relaxed -- nobody to please, entertain or take care of, only myself to think about? Am I sleeping more because it's more comfortable here now, even though I did get robbed? Am I sleeping more because a week of work a month guaranteed in London has taken the pressure off me? Or am I sleeping more because after a year of worry, stress and not sleeping, I'm simply exhausted?
Who cares?
Is it bedtime yet?
Actually, it's a combination of B, C, D and E above. It's not depression, I don't think, although hell, I'm as depressed as the next fifty-something woman, although we may all have our own reasons (you've heard mine). For me, though, depression manifests itself in not sleeping -- wired, worried and awake is me. There's no soporific aspect to it at all.
It is more comfortable here now that it's not so hot.
I'm back in my bedroom and I even used the duvet last night. Like I like.
And I had the window shut, even though I don't usually like that, but it was cool, and I'm worried about robbers.
So I didn't hear Nero, our local Roman emperor, barking next door.
Nero hasn't been barking as much lately, I've noticed.
He can tell summer is drawing in now. Less people out on their terraces late.
The comforting, rigid rhythms of Italian life.
Night-night.