My body is on strike against me. I am imprisoned by a subjugating tiredness.

The glare of the moon's sepulchritude...
(Salman Rushdie's word again)

Reading my own blog from a few years back and cringing a good deal while doing so.

It is interesting how over the years you become who you are not.

Beaten up by sleep unslept. Every bone of mine broken.
Waiting for the fog to lift.

Car crashes in my dream. Waves and waves of blood.

"Insomnia was still her most attentive, cruellest lover, demanding and possessing her selfishly whenever he chose to do so. "
Salman Rushdie, Shalimar the Clown

Waves of inner tiredness drowning me. But my mind's eye lies wide open, like the punishing light of a single neon lightbulb in the cell of my skull.
The cockroaches of busy thoughts scurry over the rotten walls.

There I was on the doorstep, still struggling with the inner demon of sleep.

So sick and sad I cannot speak.
Life lies heavy. Strangles me from the inside.

Je suis la sort de personne qui peut avoir de la chance pendant des mois pour finalement, en deux décisions désastreuses, détruire toute la construction encore branlante.

Why, life, are you so cruel to me?
I am already on my way...