Last night, I had an awful bout of insomnia.
I concluded that insomnia is waiting without purpose.
Worse than waiting for a train at an abandoned station.
In my excessive sobriety (like a dangerous opposite to extreme inebriation), I was acting like I'd been tasked with an important duty, that I must remain vigilant. Only, take away both the sense of being tasked with duty of importance, and the desire for vigilance.
My thoughts were complaints without content.
Yet in relation to these, I oscillated between two identifiable states:
One was a struggle to pay even the most diffuse attention; the other, a dreamy drift into accidental concentration of lacerating intensity, straining, as it were, to perceive quarks with my puffy naked eyes.
Although atrociously tired, I couldn't yawn.
This was particularly infuriating.
After suffering many hours this way, I tried something new: to start a story while in an insomniac state. I’m happy to report that I didn’t finish this piece.
However, I’ve decided to transcribe the fragment below as a small contribution to the scientific and/or phenomenological literature on the subject (and I suppose, a pitiful attempt at winning sympathy):
The Insomniac’s Tale of How They Mourn in Quilt
In Quilt, people held hands for a variety of reasons. You couldn’t just move to Quilt and start holding hands with just anyone as you pleased. The customs were deeply ingrained in the culture and a tourist to Quilt would be advised to observe these customs carefully, before attempting hand-holding with just anyone, even if they seemed nice.
The law was strict about the proper ways in all aspects of hand-holding. Sometimes it wasn’t permitted at all; this story is about an occasion during which things were just the opposite—mandatory, in fact.
Although some may find amusement in what follows, the author’s goal is primarily to help outsiders to Quilt to better understand the importance of appropriate holding of hands, to keep this tale in mind, should she or he choose to risk visiting the perfectly happy and lovely land, once called Quilt by the Insomniacs.
When a loved one dies in Quilt, they take it very seriously. You should see their faces! You’d think someone had just died!
(Don’t joke around like that when in Quilt, that’s just between you and me.)
In Quilt, people held hands for a variety of
Apologies, I’ve already said that. A risk one takes when writing during an insomniac episode.
(Insomnia is waiting for no purpose, not even a mistaken purpose. It is therefore WORSE than making an error, worse than the error I just made in repeating myself.)
I concluded that insomnia is waiting without purpose.
Worse than waiting for a train at an abandoned station.
In my excessive sobriety (like a dangerous opposite to extreme inebriation), I was acting like I'd been tasked with an important duty, that I must remain vigilant. Only, take away both the sense of being tasked with duty of importance, and the desire for vigilance.
My thoughts were complaints without content.
Yet in relation to these, I oscillated between two identifiable states:
One was a struggle to pay even the most diffuse attention; the other, a dreamy drift into accidental concentration of lacerating intensity, straining, as it were, to perceive quarks with my puffy naked eyes.
Although atrociously tired, I couldn't yawn.
This was particularly infuriating.
After suffering many hours this way, I tried something new: to start a story while in an insomniac state. I’m happy to report that I didn’t finish this piece.
However, I’ve decided to transcribe the fragment below as a small contribution to the scientific and/or phenomenological literature on the subject (and I suppose, a pitiful attempt at winning sympathy):
The Insomniac’s Tale of How They Mourn in Quilt
In Quilt, people held hands for a variety of reasons. You couldn’t just move to Quilt and start holding hands with just anyone as you pleased. The customs were deeply ingrained in the culture and a tourist to Quilt would be advised to observe these customs carefully, before attempting hand-holding with just anyone, even if they seemed nice.
The law was strict about the proper ways in all aspects of hand-holding. Sometimes it wasn’t permitted at all; this story is about an occasion during which things were just the opposite—mandatory, in fact.
Although some may find amusement in what follows, the author’s goal is primarily to help outsiders to Quilt to better understand the importance of appropriate holding of hands, to keep this tale in mind, should she or he choose to risk visiting the perfectly happy and lovely land, once called Quilt by the Insomniacs.
When a loved one dies in Quilt, they take it very seriously. You should see their faces! You’d think someone had just died!
(Don’t joke around like that when in Quilt, that’s just between you and me.)
In Quilt, people held hands for a variety of
Apologies, I’ve already said that. A risk one takes when writing during an insomniac episode.
(Insomnia is waiting for no purpose, not even a mistaken purpose. It is therefore WORSE than making an error, worse than the error I just made in repeating myself.)
