Without enough sleep, there's a coral-dense fog stretched through a cloudline right at the brows. It's not the headaches, the soreness, the lazy heart and feet that make the slowed cold tarry neanderthal feelings of anger and fear stir around. It's access fault, missing houses, locked and lost doors. I can think, but I can't think all the way through. I can acquire, but nothing brews out of it. Nothing happens. Not brilliant or bright or sharp or any wide black-star eyes mind insinuating into weird and truthful universal mud. It's not quite going stupid, it's just going simple. Dull. It's why the feelings are slow-cold-tarry and not slick oily room-temperature (because I know I'm not much a beast of passion). It's why the white page stays white and why I can't build a new woman from the ground up or break a life into being yet. There are eighteen half and quarter projects unfinished and nothing new because normally when I went to the attic door all strange things fell down like goddamn bones with little letters on them. It's the new mattress. Of course it's the new mattress. I've gotten it to where it doesn't leave me woken up sore necked and bad-backed, but I still haven't quite gotten to where it means a good nights sleep, no matter how long the night is. This is the most interesting I can be: Pretentiously rambly. I am full of rage and way too damned tired to do much about it.