I wrote The End last night and the machines stopped whirring in the Crap Factory - what a relief, I was writing some proper nonsense there by the end.
I've just had an hour-long sleep lying on my back with my hands on my chest and a smile on my face, like an Egyptian mummy.
Now the pressing things: hair dye and healthiness.
I'll tell you more about how it was in a few days when I've had a wash etc.
But for now, I want to say this: the biggest challenge for an obsessive person like me is not to throw everything else out in the name of the cause. Get tired, overcaffeinated, grumpy, boozy, full of self-doubt, sedentary, nail-bitten, butter-fed and dressed like a Day Out For The Day Centre. And these last days I've started to drift.
But unlike with theatre which you have to see through to the bitter end, with writing you can stop, get back on course. Maybe, returning to the good each time, I'll eventually have a creative process that doesn't punish us all for enjoying ourselves.