Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep.

on the playlist:
Chairlift - Bruises


Insomnia still sucks. I think I'm making myself ill. I've begun to detest all these consecutive October babies celebrating birthdays every weekend. Celebrating birthdays and going out on the weekends have become chores...

What is wrong with me? All work and no play... or maybe I just need to get laid? Hah!

Ambrose Bierce said that "dawn [is] when men of reason go to bed". Saskia's historical boyfriend Benjamin Franklin once said, "Sleep later. There will be enough sleep in the grave." Bon Jovi, The Cure... "I'll sleep when I'm dead".

It's three in the morning and Marisa Tomei and Robert Downy, Jr. are on the tellie making me absolutely nostalgic for Italy. (On a side note, Robert Downy has gotten better with age. Take note: Iron Man vs. Only You.) I have bags under my eyes the size of that welcome entrance to the Louis Vuitton shoppe on Champs Elysees (yeah, my under-eye baggage would make Lady Liberty proud), and yet I am still searching the depths of the world wide web for scientific articles on bones whilst wishing I was a speed-reading machine.

Why hasn't anyone created a topic-specific scholastic search engine? Oh, wait... Google Scholar, love of my life, just one-up your system and make it Anthro-specific, please?


Thank goodness for my late-night companions: espresso and the Turner Classic Movies channel.


Here's the poem they referenced in Only You (1994).

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, seperate, in the evening...

-Rainer Maria Rilke