My thoughts come in squat brick-like chunks. Each as incoherent as the next, but each showing promise! They could lead to something? Could they lead to something?
What am I saying?
I am frog marching myself toward the Holloway road, shoes clicking fast against the pavement, collar up, hands pushed hard into broken pockets. There is no sound except my heels. No, that's not quite true: There is the wave crash of distant cars and the passing threat of motorcycle engines.
Is insomnia something to be feared or celebrated?
I should be doing some of my best thinking now, in this free time gifted to me - a time oceans from the clock time of commerce. but here the clock sounds off the seconds like a broken piano. The key is struck and I feel rather than hear its tick. Thud. Like a falling body. Deep behind the eyes.
Some houses flicker with the blue of tv screens. Why am I walking? Why not wrestling with this thing in the safety of my own bed?
How awful that I can't drag anything close to poetry from this private time, when whole sleeping worlds seems to belong to me and me alone. Shouldn't that be everything? I embrace the feeling a moment, lifting my head high a step or two. But then my body asks: what are you doing halfway up the Holloway road? Why cast adrift like the walking dead? Where are you?
In three hours it will be morning. Light's lines will trace across the walls and everything will begin again.
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