Sleep doesn’t come for me no matter how badly I want it to. But my demons do, and the fact that I’m still up at 2:30 am and the only chance of ever getting a good night sleep is halfway being wasted away. It is an arguable notion, for cheap wines make you whiny and silence makes it even worse. I can’t bring myself to read more Hemingway, for although his words are majestic, generally I’m too lazy to flip through the pages and memorize random sophisticated streets in Paris along with unfamiliar pubs and bistros. There are days that I want to do everything all at once but most days I just sit around idly, never second-guessing a nightmare that is about to haunt me every damn time. I contemplate on how alone I am, consistently so, and how marvelously okay it is. I don’t go around looking for people for pride takes over my whole being, like the way a police dog towers over a criminal.
Apathy. Or the act of playing pretend. I knew that wine was a bad idea. I knew he was a bad idea. But still.
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