The only thing standing between me and bed are these words

It would also be advisable to take off my shoes. But that is seconds. This is minutes. Minutes that I could be subconscious. Minutes when my retinas would receive no light and my brain’s flashy phosphors could paint. Minutes when my hypothalamus could reset. Minutes, when –if I am very, very lucky– I will be ‘off’ to any part of me that might remember in the morning.

How could it possibly be so very important to make all the chemistry, physics, and design we all take for granted place these symbols -nonsense to much of the world- appear in sequence on this comforting facsimile of a page? I promised myself I would write every day -well, poorly, hastily, clumsily, redundantly, irritatingly, emptily, truly- every day. Tiny clichés, sweeping manifestos–

Minutes!

True. Words. Every day.

Even if they are lies the moment after I type them.

Sleep now.

 

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