I do not feel poetic at all this night. MY attempts at splicing with words and converting them into catchy phrases are failures. I have been sick for a while now. Yesterday was marked with a slight fever. That was a let-down. I had a speedy recovery as well. I retain my old habits. My old insomniac habits. I am pissed! Oh Good Lord, why is the devil myself and SLEEP? I recall SLEEP by Haruki Murakami. A fantastical surreal condition that would be! Imagine the rest of your life without the need to rest. All that would be so beautiful.
I am saddened that the simplest tasks are underestimated. Not that they could be estimated. I'd like to think so. I think that I am lazy but in truth, several other people whom I have encountered in my life befit "Sorrows of the Moon".
Excuse my very incomprehensible stream-of-consciousness. Insomnia emulates drunkenness. Not that I know about it.
To end this nonsensical blog, a note to you:
Do not infiltrate my mind. Do not trespass my dreams. I feel naked. Absolutely naked. Weakened. No protection whatsoever. A single most innocent and meaningless touch of the hand is enough. But no, the evil devil ravishes through my throat and initiates a gulp of the finish. Argh you. The pathetic thing here is that you do not give a thought and I am sickened and pulled inside-out.
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