I Am A Bike Enthusiast;

A Combination Of Acting, Lying, Begging, And Cheating.

If You Don't Want Anyone To Know About Your Existence, You Might As Well Kill Yourself. You're Taking Up Space, Air.

I Like The Dark Part Of The Night, After Midnight And Before Four-thirty, When It's Hollow, When Ceilings Are Harder And Farther Away. Then I Can Breathe, And Can Think While Others Are Sleeping, In A Way Can Stop Time, Can Have It So – This Has Always Been My Dream – So That While Everyone Else Is Frozen, I Can Work Busily About Them, Doing Whatever It Is That Needs To Be Done, Like The Elves Who Make The Shoes While Children Sleep.

But The Grind Has Begun. The Windows Don’t Open, And Even The Availability Of Near-constant Jokes About Jews And Mormons Fails To Stem The Tide Of Frustration, Decay. We’ve Reached The End Of Pure Inspiration, And Are Now Somewhere Else, Something Implying Routine, Or Doing Something Because People Expect Us To Do It, Going Somewhere Each Day Because We Went There The Day Before, Saying Things Because We Have Said Them Before, And This Seems Like The Work Of A Different Sort Of Animal, Contrary To Our Plan, And This Is Very Very Bad.

Every Part Of My Body Felt Electric. My Chest Ached And My Head Throbbed With The Great Terrible Limitless Possibility Of The Morning, And When It Came, The Sky Was Washed White, Everything Was New, And I Hadn't Slept At All.