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the speed of the sound of loneliness

I don't have much to contribute to the discussion of sleeplessness. It happens to me occasionally, but not with a regularity that warrants talking about. It bothers me when it occurs, but it usually seems that the only damage done the next day is that I keep worrying that I haven't slept, rather than anything else. It always seems to be worse for other people, the way they talk about it, so I end up feeling that I "mustn't grumble"TM and that's the end of it.

Coincidentally (it seems), I did pick up Elliot Perlman's the reasons I won't be coming today. I remember being entranced by the cover upon its release in bookshops, and can clearly remember almost buying it a number of times, the first being in Readings near South Yarra station. But the cover. He's awake, staring at the ceiling in that resigned, hands-behind-head manner. She's fast asleep and problem-free. My occasional insomnia usually stems from intense worry, and that's always how it seems, staring straight up at the faulty air-conditioning vent, a succession of squares upon larger squares that looks like a colourless approximation of the modern art of some previous decade. Even in the dark I know it's there hanging above me, my own little abyss to stare into.

Somehow or other I've managed to complete an entire month of journalling - the first time in what'll be 4 years at the end of next month. I wasn't sure I could do it, and I'm still not quite sure I've done it, but there it is.

* 21:26 * reading