Tot müde
I can't sleep, not now, and I don't know why. No ideas are tormenting me, nothing that I need to write. I'm just tired, deep down tired, and I like in bed and stare at the ceiling, textured like hand prints.
My hands aren't circular. An octopus making snow angels?
My bed is comfortable, but the pillow is always too warm, even the cool side. I need a new head.
I'm not reading the right things. Which isn't to say that I'm reading the wrong things, I'm just not reading enough. Never reading enough. There's not enough time, not even when I'm not sleeping. There's not enough me.
Ah, circadian rhythm, how I miss you.
My hands aren't circular. An octopus making snow angels?
My bed is comfortable, but the pillow is always too warm, even the cool side. I need a new head.
I'm not reading the right things. Which isn't to say that I'm reading the wrong things, I'm just not reading enough. Never reading enough. There's not enough time, not even when I'm not sleeping. There's not enough me.
Ah, circadian rhythm, how I miss you.