At night, all the thoughts come.
The day dreams end, the delusions fade to black.
All the things I should have done, could have done – opposed to what I actually did.
The faults in others, the faults in myself, the faults that can’t be controlled, the faults created.
The end, the beginning, the sloppy middles and how divisions between the three are rarely distinctive.
And damn it, I’d just like to sleep.
I’d just like to escape into the other reality known as my dreams.
And I’m just wasting time; I haven’t written anything besides cine-file reviews for a fortnight. I had to force myself to update my sketchbook. I haven’t even thought of a new scene in my latest novel project. Script? What scripts?
Why do I think I should fall in love when I have so much work to do? I don’t need another excuse to get nothing done.