3:11 a.m. - March 20, 2002
My ears pound and my head splits
Again can't sleep.
My eyes are cracked, my lips gritty, my fingers salivate and my toes hot. Nothing is write.
If not so worried about public image in a private jounal, why worry about admission of uncertainty when I can't determine the time because I have my watch on backwards? Was it like this all day?
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Years ago I'd invite myself over to Bathsheba's basement cave for the lumpy mattress in an overnight trip between classes simply because I slept always, like cashing in a promissory note or bringing federal bonds to the bank for deposit. In bed at midnight, awake at 3, asleep again at 4, up for the day at 5. Other times I study. Read. Scrub the tub. Paint hallways. In college stared awake at the ceiling and willed my body to obey hour after hour.
Last dream was beautiful like listening to cello music at the lake and I wanted it to go on and on even if the characters morphed into sixfeetundertakers and Janice from the Sopranos because it was fun and pleasurable and then through the door the something else arrived and I couldn't wake up quick enough and how disappointing to realize I'd slept for halfhour only.
