SPRUCED.

2:04. I worry. I worry that I can't sleep. I can't sleep, because I worry about not sleeping and it's 2:06 now and this another night wherein all my good intentions of being asleep by 11 at the latest have wronged me. 2:06 and tomorrow morning I'll hear the alarm, I'll turn the alarm off, I'll roll over, back under. The sheets. So hard to get up from under in the morning. The alarm will go off again, I'll turn it off again, pointless now to get up when I haven't gotten up on time in the first place. Might as well be real late. But can't. Not tomorrow. Can't. So much to do. 2:07. So why think about all that's to do tomorrow now instead of tomorrow? But it's no use. I'm up now. Might as well have another smoke. Might as well read a little while longer. What difference does another half hour make now that I can't sleep anyway? 2:11 This is so dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. 2:12 I should write Paul sometime. Tomorrow. I'll do that tomorrow. And Tasha, too. And Callie. Have I always been this crap at keeping in touch? With anyone? When did this start? School maybe? When, after I'd gotten it together enough to – finally! – write an e-mail to someone and feel like I'd accomplished something only for them to write right back, I'd be almost disappointed at them for writing right back. Because now I had to write them again. It seemed like such effort. Too much effort typing down even now much effort it seemed. 2:14 This is tiring. Think of the phonecalls I have to make, three before the 10 o'clock meeting. Tomorrow it'll happen. Tomorrow: A good day! From tomorrow onwards: No more sleeping in, sleeping late, no more dragging along. Plan that I'll get up in precisely four and a half hours. Because if I get up in precisely four and a half hours, tomorrow will be a good day. Tomorrow, tomorrow. Wasn't that a song in Cats? No: West Side Story. Plan what I'll wear. A good outfit. A great outfit! That I'll shower. Shave legs. Good make-up tomorrow. Slap the happy paint on. If only I'll get up in time it'll be a good day. It'll somehow not be a disappointment. I'll somehow not be a disappointment to myself. But it's no use. Not when I'm still up at 2:18. I do this. I do this year after year, night after night. Out of sync with myself. Not on schedule. And I still do it even when I haven't done it, almost as if in mistake, when I've lapsed and liked the unexpected precision with which I could work after all. But enough now. Enough. I'm finally tired.