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rejectomorphThis sleeping much of the night is strange. Saturday evening I found the energy to fix the large meal I hadn't fixed Friday, and eating that meal (which I actually finished) added to the lethargy that lured me back to bed before midnight, and to a long (though interrupted a couple of times) and dreamless (as far as my memory goes) slumber. Oh look, I wrote slumber instead of sleep this time. Must be getting desperate for variety.
I actually woke up almost entirely at four o'clock, but didn't want to be starting a day so early, so I spent the next couple of hours wandering about in the scary neighborhood of my brain, now and then dozing off again, (and god only knows what went on during /those/ interludes,) until I finally found the whole charade intolerable around six o'clock. Since then I've done this. Whatever this is. I haven't paid much attention to it. When do I? Why would I? It's not like I don't bore myself.
Anyway, I've had some orange juice, and then a donut and some iced tea, and a piece of cake and some iced coffee, and I'm pretty sure some indigestion is setting in (how did /that/ happen?) Every time I glance toward my bedroom and see my bed with its freshly washed, cozy linens I am tempted to go try sleeping some more, though odds are I'd have to get up and pee quite a lot. Still, I've got nothing else to do, and I do love my old age sleep (the best part of old age, really.) I'll probably go ahead and do that, right after I pee again. And this:
Sunday Verse
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
October is the treasurer of the year,
And all the months pay bounty to her store;
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
And fill her brimming coffers more and more.
But she, with youthful lavishness,
Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
And decks herself in garments bold
Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.
She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,
But smiles and sings her happy life along;
She only sees above a shining sky;
She only hears the breezes' voice in song.
Her garments trail the woodlands through,
And gather pearls of early dew
That sparkle, till the roguish Sun
Creeps up and steals them every one.
But what cares she that jewels should be lost,
When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers?
Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,
Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs.
Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,
She lives her life out joyously,
Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way
And turns her auburn locks to gray.
I actually woke up almost entirely at four o'clock, but didn't want to be starting a day so early, so I spent the next couple of hours wandering about in the scary neighborhood of my brain, now and then dozing off again, (and god only knows what went on during /those/ interludes,) until I finally found the whole charade intolerable around six o'clock. Since then I've done this. Whatever this is. I haven't paid much attention to it. When do I? Why would I? It's not like I don't bore myself.
Anyway, I've had some orange juice, and then a donut and some iced tea, and a piece of cake and some iced coffee, and I'm pretty sure some indigestion is setting in (how did /that/ happen?) Every time I glance toward my bedroom and see my bed with its freshly washed, cozy linens I am tempted to go try sleeping some more, though odds are I'd have to get up and pee quite a lot. Still, I've got nothing else to do, and I do love my old age sleep (the best part of old age, really.) I'll probably go ahead and do that, right after I pee again. And this:
Sunday Verse
October
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
October is the treasurer of the year,
And all the months pay bounty to her store;
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
And fill her brimming coffers more and more.
But she, with youthful lavishness,
Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
And decks herself in garments bold
Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.
She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,
But smiles and sings her happy life along;
She only sees above a shining sky;
She only hears the breezes' voice in song.
Her garments trail the woodlands through,
And gather pearls of early dew
That sparkle, till the roguish Sun
Creeps up and steals them every one.
But what cares she that jewels should be lost,
When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers?
Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,
Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs.
Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,
She lives her life out joyously,
Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way
And turns her auburn locks to gray.
