Gorgeous Day of the Dead Bread at La Bloga. Make your own.
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I mean why two in the morning? After sleeping 3 or 4 hours: wakefulness, my heading going like a bat out of hell. Elusive sleep again. This journal will persist on lack of sleep. It's no use writing about tiredness. Tiredness is not enough. When I was irritable and pessimistic about everything yesterday--even resentful at everything that demanded I be awake--tiredness was not enough word to give anyone. What's wrong? Oh, I'm very very tired. See what I mean? What is it about words that they cannot speak to body without peacock-feathering all their inadequacies? Say it: I'm just exhausted. Doesn't work, does it? It hardly suggests that whole strings of days, weeks, of insomnia and desks piled high and deadlines and hundreds and hundreds of emails and ten loads of laundry and events and events and events and a strange little book calling where are you where are you where are you are ready to spill past that word, exhuastion, overflowing in the infinite way the head has a way of seeming to the body who so obviously aches for it.
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What's more (because we at Reli[e]able Signs speak only of two subjects, sleep being first since we seem to have no agency in it whatsoever, which makes it endlessly, well, unpredictable, much like the weather): weather. Which is not small talk as is supposed. But the hinge. Whether. Guess what? Yes! It is gray. And gray is clearly the new black.
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