2AM in a quiet home, people sleeping. Some clock is bleeping on the dot every ten minutes. Makes me remember I'm alive every ten minutes, alive and ready and awake and able to hear in the dead of night although when you don't talk to anybody and just talk to yourself in your head it feels as if you've suddenly become mute.
Somewhat tired, could force myself to sleep but it feels unfair to my restless state of mind, it really does. Although I'm not able to produce much so I should read instead of write, would feel more intelligent, more able, excited, ready, but I'm pushing this as much as I can to see what would become of my automatic writing at this time of the night.
Fancy myself at the minute as some correspondent at moth's land. It's nothing spectacular out there, I'm not even in the room next to the street, the whizzing of cars passing, racing the sky and its wet streets of desire. I'm in the indoors room, the one reserved to visitors or to the child who is the most silent, the one with the feverish imagination, the one that doesn't complain much.
Not much is happening so can't talk about much, I just keep on slouching over this bed until my back gives in and my neck can't take it anymore and I have to either change position or change activities. When your eyes are tired and dry there is not much fun anymore, images of fancy dress parties don't dance in front of your eyes, chances seem remote, eagerness subsides, your laptop warms up your hand palms, that's all.
One blink and you're dead. Come on, you're falling asleep, not much more is going to happen, let it go.
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