An Inhuman Condition

It’s late, and by any estimation of the situation, I should be tucked neatly into my heaping disarray of covers drifting somewhere toward the corner of Sleep Ave. and Dream Blvd. I should be singing my sweet chorus of apnea inspired snores and thrashing in my sheets. I should be diligently dangling in the dark ditch between mattresses and floor using my bedding as one giant-sized pillow. I should be doing all of this, yet I am not.

The caffeine stomping in my gullet, sending signals and synapses of stimulated stirring, will not yet subside and turn the tide from wakefulness to rest. I am simply stuck with no luck, no sheets into which I may tuck, feeling like a schmuck run amok, like a young buck struck by a truck until the drug burning deep inside subsides, until I’m free of this muck.

Well, fuck.

Light that midnight oil, baby, and watch it burn bright deep into the night.