Death & Breakfast
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It’s 8:20 a.m. and I’m sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for my French Toast. Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night” is blaring from a radio in the kitchen. It’s actually oddly appropriate, as I expect to be asleep within the hour, if possible. I got a total of 3 restless hours of sleep on my own floor last night, awoke at 4:30 and drove Ashli to the airport at 6:30.
And it’s going to be a beautiful day…. I should try not to waste it all sleeping. But everyone else in here, sparsely populated though it is, is on their way up, off, into the day. Excelsior!
I, however, only seek to complete some errands, then blissful breezy sanctuary in bed. 4 mg of Xanax and a cup of chamomile tea are comrades-in-arms, allying themselves to take my Central Nervous System down like the proverbial sack of potatoes.
Shakespeare said “Sleep is the Brother of Death….” As sleep and I have what could most accurately be called a passing acquaintance, and Death and I have danced more than one dark night, does that make me a friend of the family?
fucking beautiful