Jun. 1st, 2023

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My sleep schedule has gotten all weird and non-schedualy again, and I'm not enjoying it. I sleep poorly and suspect I'm having bad drams I don't remember, the effects of which linger in the background through my waking hours. Lethargy, lassitude, ennui... sounds like a sad shopping list, or the stuff you'd pack for a trip to despair. I find loads of distractions, though none with staying power, and nothing that really cheers me up. I think I miss the old movies I used to watch on cable.

Wednesday was the arse-end of May, and June already bores me. I slept, restlessly, for several hours and then woke up at four in the morning again, like some Iowa farmer with an actual job to do, not an old guy needing to get through another sultry California day without screaming and scaring the homeless people camped along the bike path over the back fence. At times like this the only thing that still pleases me at all is music, and at the moment Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most” by lyricist Fran Landesman and composer Tommy Wolf, first published in 1955, is the closest thing I've got to an effective tonic. Damn, I was ten years old when this song came out. What the hell happened?

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rejectomorph

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