My fingers just threw up all over the keyboard.

Claypishtoo. 8 am, severe insomnia, too much old Hollywood, even more indie and a lubricious if not lascivious day dream involving Gregory Peck. It's a strange morning. My head's a blurry mist of jackknifed juggernaut that I can't quite knead into written dough. But ah well, its been six months since I obliged an e-page with the blessed words of a hysterically messy brain. No really, messy might be too polite. The architect who carefully designed the interiors of my brain must be turning in his grave. Yes, he's dead, when you create a masterpiece in Tanviville, you fulfill your purpose on earth and are put into a cold quiet sleep. -Insert evil laugh?- Anyway yes, the blueprint looks like this, and let me paint you a little picture. Compartmentalized thoughts, once neatly labelled and stored in little glass jars are swaying gently across the ceiling, barely scraping the muscled walls. Incipients of ideas, notions are crouching mindlessly (and excuse the pun) near the shelves that once stored a raving belief in Ayn Rand and Ben Gibbard. A yawning void of terse longing and singlehood is right smack in the middle of the now dilapidating room, carpetting the nerve endings, tender and warm. It's the time of the day. You know, when you want to do nothing but weave imaginary yarns about James Mercer, when Marten from QC takes on a real, fleshy existence, when words from random Porcupine Tree songs seem profound and meaningful, when you write little notes on facebook about nothing at all? Yes, that time.

Poetry is next, I can see it. Help. Sweet mother of jesus, I'm turning into a Chetan Bhagat. >.>
Being this drugged and happy is indecent. Ivory towers own major butt. I need coffee, lots of it.