Insomnia

What I really like about my flat in Griffith is that one can hear people whistling to their flatmates to let them inside the building at 3.47 in the night. And that though my room is commodious in the extreme, yet all I have to do is sit up on the bed in order to draw back the curtains and peer out the window to see cars driving by at 5.17 in the morning.


I haven’t slept the whole night. And yet I feel more alive than I have for a long time. The last time I felt like this was when I was up the entire night reading Atlas Shrugged.

Fashionably contemptuous as I am of everything, occasionally a belief in magic sneaks up on me before I have had the time to retrieve my stock of chocolates. Pity.