Quite disenchanting, writing about what is really happening.
A throbbing head, a sore back, aching muscles and tired eyes only emphasize the calling of my soft warm bed willing me to take shelter in sleep. No I mustn't or the thoughts will slip away, escape my ever flailing grasp. As if I had enough trouble catching them it seems as soon as I touch one it begins to fade and crumble in my clutch. The beauty of my words diminishes with each second I am not writing. I do not deprave myself of sleep because I want to write. I simply listen to that which calls the loudest.