I got two hours of sleep this morning and kept waking up to dream phones ringing. My neighbour has a loud cowbell windchime.

This day was lacklustre. I should be at least relieved that the English research paper saga is finished, but I'm too aware that it's not very good. Too tired to do anything. Too tired to stay awake. Too tired to pay attention. Too tired to be clever.

Can't sleep either. Contrary to public opinion, it feels pulmonary. I try to inhale, but air laced with the smell of soap sticks in clumps in my bronchi. Singing Stevie Wonder distracts from it. (Someone warm like you.)

I'm reluctant to be a better person. When I'm angry I become a self-righteous, cocky bastard. (Like the other self-righteous bastard in the house.) Last saturday Hamza let me hold his spare lacrosse stick and since then I've been brandishing a metaphorical wooden stick. (It's important to note that Hamza's stick is made of aluminium, but it brought back memories of the wooden one I had for five years that I sold for twenty pounds, hardly enough for the pain it caused.) The point is that I need to put it down, but it's easier to run, it's easier to never have to look you in the eye. You know, because sometimes it's easier to be hurtfully honest.

Think of what you're saying
You can get it wrong and still you think that it's all right
Think of what I'm saying
We can work it out and get it straight, or say good night.

I sound like such a retard when I try to sing "ti-i-i-i-i-ime".

<< You work "tepid" into an English presentation about the destruction of families. >>

th since 5th october 2001