I started out writing about E. B. White. I love his work. When I was about eight years old, I read Charlotte’s Web. Then I read Stuart Little and after that The Trumpet of the Swan. Looking at that now, I realize that the books became progressively less depressing.
But my brain is dying of sleeplessness. Sleep. Sleep sleep sleep sleep. It sounds funny in brain. On my tongue.
I could roll it around and hear it clatter.
I found myself sitting in a pose that I do not remember getting into.
5 Hour Energy is not helping.
I want a hat. I do not know what kind of hat, but I want one. Preferably one that looks good on me. But since that might be asking too much, I’ll settle for whatever I can get.
My brain is tripping over my fingers. Trip. Trip trip trip trip trip. Tip-trip. Trip-tip? Whicketty wackety woo.
Yep. Dain bramage. Thou art me.
My head is at a funny angle. Or maybe it’s the room. No, it’s definitely my head. I wonder if I can fix that.