THREE-THIRTY.

Insomnia is a powerful competitor for my focus this evening.
Sleep is simply not flashy enough to keep up.

Suck it up, Sleep. Your wimpy ass belongs elsewhere.

Actually, I'm going to try and crash. Into bed, that is. Not a wall, or other hard surface into which "crashing" might prove dangerous or, worse yet, inconvenient.

I didn't know I could ramble with my fingertips in the midst of such little amounts of energy. They are truly masters of their own accord, reciting with an eternal lack of grace or poise that I would have never fathomed. At least, not while sane. This, my dear [no one] is far from that of sanity or congealed thought. Instead, I divert myself along the path of intrepid nothingness, stopping to pass a lone memory or faint recollection of something that might have, at some point in time, proved significant or meaningful to some "one," "place," or "thing."

I have no idea where this is going. Better yet, I have even less of an idea of where it is ending. Which, for anyone dredging through my blabber, should be the more intense of focuses.

Lack of focus. That's what I'm grappling with this evening. Nothing feels monumental or powerful enough for me to fixate upon, discuss at length, bury myself in the warmth of its conversational value. Instead, I am merely a vessel for meaningless jargon, a disgruntled voyeur, gazing on the product of ten fingers eager to pound out thoughts and express syntax that have no foundation in realistic weight, value, significance, or importance.

Even as my brain is screaming for me to shut up, my fingers are gesturing rudely in their incessant movement, unceasing, yet completely non-committed to the outcome of such contradiction.

I'm going to shut them up for a few hours, I think. Mandatory silence never hurt anyone. Finger-wise, that is.