Up all night playing games, drinking vodka, popping a few pills, unable to sleep, now tired, almost ready to pass out at my desk, the eyelids as heavy as lead sheets, but the coffee—more stimulants—helps a little, but the exhaustion seems to be winning and all I want to do is go back home and sleep some more, but tonight, when I arrive at my place, I’ll probably be unable to sleep and instead want to play games and drink vodka and, were there any left, pop a few pills. But perhaps this evening shall be more eventful, perhaps a thought, a spark of genius will overcome me and I’ll write the great novel or perhaps compose the great symphony or even concoct the perfect meal or maybe make the sweetest love or perhaps think the grandest thought, and then I could sit and wonder, idly, happily, beer in hand, at the grand accomplishment of my grand mind, and oh the shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper, it does.