It's almost 1 AM and I'm sitting with four books open in front of me. The letters have run together in a smoky mess of molten ink. I've got a pair of basketball shorts inside out, a beater, and a zip up hoodie on. I'm wearing a pair of socks, but my toes are cold.

I'm pouring out more ink onto these overburdened pages. I'm creasing lines with importance and urgency. But it's passing through like parental warnings to teenagers.

It's Monday night and I won't sleep for long. I don't need to, don't want to, tell myself that I don't want to, so I take 10 minutes and watch Scrubs. I turn on iTunes and listen to "In Rainbows" for the 12th time in 3 days. I follow the dynamic and continued acceleration of the Colorado Rockies towards certain victory (can they do any wrong?). A tiny fly that squeezed through the screen this afternoon tempts my weary reflexes. And Tuesday is rearing its ugly head to swoop me up as Monday vomits me.

Does it bother me? No. I'm happy to sit here and read until I can't anymore. And so long as I can turn my basketball shorts inside out, and settle within a beater and a hoodie, some self-imposed insomnia doesn't scare me.

Dress me up in a suit and ask me to do the same and you'll find my pretty little necktie making me a nice pillow.