I have insomnia again. It happens when I write. Problem is, now I just want to turn off. I'm not even thinking about writing anymore, I'm just thinking about stuff. Stuff, as in nothing inparticular, as in my mind feels like that Price Is Right game where dollar bills frenetically blow around a glass container.
Just want to sleep. I'm not sure why, actually I think I kind of know why, but when I have insomnia it feels like the loneliest thing in the world. Not enjoyable.
The wind rattling the streetlight outside my window reminds me of the Santa Ana Winds in California. Today, it was gorgeous in NYC. Now, nothing but wind & fallen blossoms, which is pretty, just in a different way.
It's 3:00. (AM) I don't think I'll be in REM anytime soon. Going to read Lacan. Maybe he'll put me to sleep.