That I’m typing at quarter to five in the morning tells some serious lie to my assertion that I would finally sleep. Forgive me, world, for I have sinned. I am pulled from my bed by textual hands. I rise, letting the screen bathe my flesh in blue-white light. Light the colour of tinted static. My fingers on the black keys in front of me, I realize horribly that I’m awake perhaps for the day. My natural hours of sleep shrinking like wet leather in sun. I am here, wondering why I cannot dream. How many days until it becomes a problem? I don’t remember statistics, my recall is growing too hazy. Unreliable machine, this body.
I’ve collected some Spam in between checking before bed and now. Be Paid To Drive Your Car, a scheme I’m not familiar with. I remember reading somewhere that Wired Magazine tried following up a slew of Spam Mail and couldn’t get any replies. They tried to Enlarge Their Penis, Increase Your Bra Size, Buy Prescription Pills, but to no avail. I wonder, really, what then is the point? Some weeks I get nothing at all.
I’m sure it’s going to be a beautiful day. Angsty boys will lay down their razorblades for the crisp fall air. The leaves will rain in the parks, a fluttering slow dance that catches the heart because it carries too much childhood promise of candy. Remember darling, down the street not across. The internet bleeding for us in iconic glory. Bless this. Teen girls will lay down their glitter inked pens for the taste of the wind. The blue of the sky will drown them out of themselves, watch it deepen.