evening

I am quite disappointed to discover that late nights no longer agree with me. I am a night owl by nature, but the necessity of working during the day has turned me reluctantly diurnal. I am too young to be nostalgic over my misspent youth, yet I find myself wishing for an all-night restaurant and friends to share the moment with. Perkins, or El Camino. Hot chocolate. Poetry. Card games. Drunken revelry. Yes, I miss it.

Work is work. I go, I sit, I answer phones and type, upload and download, and come home only to sit at my computer again for lack of other things to do. And yet I still look forward to it. Child of technology, I am. The computer is the new opiate of the masses, and I buy into it willingly. Foolish, sad, a disappointment to the rebel brewing inside. From this sort of angst, what can come but art? Facetious, too, that's me.

My book and bed call me. They wait--they are patient. They know I must soon succumb to sleep. A few pages, then, and afterwards I will rest. Tomorrow brings another day of work and melting snow.