04/19
          “Yeah, well, three-hundred gallons of poop isn't gonna smell like a garden.”


04/18
          Someone is changing my memories.
          The past becomes elastic. Malleable. My choices become those of someone who's not me. All that I've done is a connect-the-dots puzzle, and every morning I awaken to the lines forming a different shape.


04/17
          Let sleep come! Just once! A mere fifteen minutes would be enough. Let us have that, at the absolute least!
          Sleep—that elusive mistress known as Sleep—winks, walks past, maybe even flashes a thigh... but she will not come to bed! No, instead, Sleep spends the night out on the town, flirting with other men. Or women!
          Indeed, Sleep is a loose lover. She isn't here, now, when she is needed most. Let the eyes stop seeing! Let the heart slow its beating! And please, Sleep, come soothe the brain; let the mind pause its thinking!
          She won't come. The fingers still tap the typewriter's keys, the ears still hear the record's tones, the teeth still bite the mouth's tongue, the hairs still itch, the nose still runs, the soul... the soul still cries for Sleep's embrace!
          Yet Sleep remains distant. And she will remain so for the next few hours, waiting, sipping tea somewhere, until we all are back in school, back at work, back with infrequently-seen family members, back with old friends, or on a date, or driving the freeway, or even about to finally write that perfect sentence, the combination of words that have been trying to be combined in ink on paper, the single phrase or several phrases that will communicate that message, that idea we've been trying to think of—yes, when we all have given up on finding Sleep and have moved on with the day, that bitch Sleep will come up from behind us and yhgttttttttttttttttttttttttt