No, really, I'm Cinna the poet.

And I need to sleep, but apparently it's one of Those times again, in which I sit up at night and think things into oblivion.

That or I go into the hallway with a book or a notebook. But lately I haven't felt up to the creative process.

Because, you see, I do not think that they will sing to me. Combing watery hair is more worthwhile than combing a watery mind.

There will be time to murder and create, I know this, I've been delivering myself this message for years, verbatim and non, before I realized what I was capable of, and even now I'm in the midst of murdering myself again.

Hooked on phoenix worked for me.

And would it have been worth it, after all? To bag the damn rehearsal and go running down the hall? To pick the bloody phone up and to give the girl a call? Dime, por favor.

Sleep is a good thing, this I know. If only I could experience it for myself.

I gave blood today. Feel free to take this entry as a product of my wooziness.

Adieu.