Couldn’t sleep, so came downstairs. Still quite awake. Again with the fork, left keep going, right right back to bed. I’m going right, in a minute, just sitting in vehicle enjoying the view, quiet. Other writing fathers know the addictive nature of moments that are so slated in uniqueness that they have to hold them, like the babies, just for a couple clock blocks, small but significant.
Final in the morning. In class before 7– “Go to bed, Mikey! What are you, a fool?” Starting to think I may be… But we are the ones who just act without think, just create from whatever’s around us. Fridge humming gentle, some clock down here making the most cliched slow tock-tock (not much tick-y to its sound)… Then the fridge stops and I should go back to dreams, if I was dreaming. Was I? Can’t remember. Don’t think I dream as much as I used to. Well, not when asleep anyway.
3:04. Fuck you, clock! What if I just went at that coffee I made last night, stayed awake, and write even more than I did in yesterday’s advancing morning types? Not this morning. Not attacking the 4AM province. Not this morning. Know I could, but I’ll bask in last morning’s push a little longer. Stay just outside its borders and know I could. But am holding off, just a little longer. Till tomorrow. That victory sort tastes much better.