There are certain things I'm taking to. A time of night I'm reaching more and more. I aim for dullness, as if I'm leading my senses off a cliff. I'm not truly happy unless I wake up at dawn, my lamp still on. Perhaps I'm fully clothed, now wouldn't that be something.
It started as a way of getting work done. The small hours were quiet, they were dark. The world was asleep and I could finally sit and think and act and do. Those hours were in fact small, and I felt big.
But like increasing cayenne on my eggs I became accustomed. I could not get the hours small enough it seemed. And it became a time not of work, not of creativity, but of the basest tasks. I could not do a thing until that time, and then there was no time to do any thing at all.
And so I lie here on my bed, shoes firmly surrounding my feet, wondering why I've woken up. Wondering when I will ever get back to sleep. Wondering just when it was I drifted away.
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