It’s 1.30 in the morning. Although I have work in a depressingly scarce spread of hours, I cannot sleep. Normally, I’d make use of the insomnia like normal people - staring at the ceiling in the hope that it can explain the inexplicably perpetual paucity of my bank account. But now that I have a blog - in name if nothing else - I’m allowed to write instead.
This has not been without issues. To avoid waking the house, I’m writing in the non-luculent glow of my phone, which winks in and out of existence like a narcoleptic lighthouse keeper. I’ve broken two pens in as many paragraphs. This has been solved by a pencil. If it breaks I’ll throw the lot into the bin.
I’m currently wearing a week old growth of beard from a trip to Brisbane. It’s long since gone past the stage of acceptable stubble, and now resembles a blackened, greasy mange that would put most of Occupy Brisbane to shame. It has now been shaved.
This has not been without issues. To avoid waking the house, I’m writing in the non-luculent glow of my phone, which winks in and out of existence like a narcoleptic lighthouse keeper. I’ve broken two pens in as many paragraphs. This has been solved by a pencil. If it breaks I’ll throw the lot into the bin.
I’m currently wearing a week old growth of beard from a trip to Brisbane. It’s long since gone past the stage of acceptable stubble, and now resembles a blackened, greasy mange that would put most of Occupy Brisbane to shame. It has now been shaved.
‘The Devil’s Orchard’ by Opeth is playing in my mind at a level appropriate for concert flashbacks, but not sleep.
Goodnight.
Do not buy a phone tomorrow.
Please.
Saw you happily engaged in conversation with your fellow inmates. Didn't seem to have too many lobotomy patients graving in your field.
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