It’s later than I’d like it to be and I can’t sleep.  My bed is inviting, but I tossed and turned for two hours before giving up and migrating cross the arctic tundra of my kitchen tile to the computer where I find nothing but a desolate ocean of insomnia.  A beer to slow my mind and the pitter patter of rain is seducing.  It’s definitely February in Los Angeles.  I can hear it in the silence between splashing puddles and the lack of warmth eminating from the hallways of my mind.  Tomorrow will come, and I’ll be tired once again.  I’m off to sleep once more.

It’s getting quite difficult to adjust to winter this year, reason being it is 85 degrees outside right now.  I woke up in my bed wearing a long coat, covered in sweat, confused, for I know not when or how I got to sleep.  It’s a recurring problem in life’s recurring dream of ridiculousness.  I wish ridiculous was the correct word.  Life isn’t really ridiculous at all.  Synchronicities are becoming too easy to find because I already know what’s going to happen.  The script in my mind is always 5 pages in front of the narrative of my life.  Go ahead, try and surprise me. All Saturday means in Los Angeles is that you have to sweep the dust of night under the rug.  Look to the stars, dust is made up of Heaven.

Leaves me drifting deeper into sleep beyond the waking sleep of hearing rain pattering on the fallen leaf’s outside my window.  It’s Holloween and I am 27 years old but I don’t know that anymore for I am sleeping.  Nothing is better than not knowing who you are on Holloween.  You can’t be held accountable if you don’t know who you are.  That’s a nice way to be, but only here in sleep do enjoy it.  Waking today the pain will rise again, and the sun will shine hard, and I’ll reminisce of oceans of orgasmic nothingness.  Rent is due tomorrow.