Thursday night and the baby's crying. It echoes off the cheap walls of the apartment. It is stuck in the corners with the cobwebs. It is a colorful sound full of deep reds and greens so green they are almost black. Sleep is something we take for granted. Like grandparents. Like breakfast.
I'm an automaton. It's almost kind of pleasant. I have been anesthetized by fatigue. I feel like McMurphy and his electroshocking calm. I'm not fighting it. You can't.
Think I'll go have a glass of milk. There is something about cold milk at night. Something that takes me back to footed pajamas and sleep that was rarely interrupted. I dreamt of flying. Every night. Here, in the darkness, my family surrounds me and I can feel this weird energy. It's like airborne love. And I'll fucking take it. Even if they fall asleep, I might stay up. Looking at their faces. Being thankful.