One thirty in the am is too early to rise. It’s half an hour before I went to bed so… well, you can do the maths. Still, that’s what was so that’s where I’m at.
Fell asleep once. Not by design. One moment I was wide awake and the next my head fell backwards with such force that it almost snapped my neck and went rolling across the floor. It didn’t. I was saved.
Music keeps me awake. Downloaded a show (or perhaps it was a tell) from BBC radio One Xtra (who stole the E?) this morning and then (later on) meditated on it. The bass tickles my chest, the snares scratch the top of my head, the voice sits easily between my ears and rest of it rattles around somewhere inbetween. If I sway then it’s to the music not towards the arms of Morpheus (from which morphine comes).
A book is my other armour against boredom. My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk. Once I got past the Arabikish names I got sucked in sweet and slipp’ry. At six-hundred and seventy-one pages it’s gotta have hooks to get to be able to survive. There’s a corpse that talks and a similarly endowed dog so we’re flying so far in.
Looked up to see two girls kissing. Can’t say too much about that. But I’ll rein myself in.
You ever stared at something (no, not the girls kissing) so long that it flies free from reason and stops being anything? Like, when I was thirteen and I said ‘potato’ so many times that it became meaningless or like when I was sixteen and I travelled to the far end of the universe, right up to the wall and didn’t (quite) go mad when I peeked over!
I can still feel residual frustration towards the guy I asked directions from. The one who just shrugged and muttered something in another language. One I dint understand. Not Yorkshire.
Twenty past three in the pm. That’ll do. Laters.