James  Joyce sleeping in bed, next to me. He snores almost as a whisper. I don't bother to shake him. I can sleep and he has been through enough the eccentric that he may be. Write. All else is meaningless. That part is somewhat fiction though. We know that from our own depraved eccentric lows and bottoms. Sleep. You will make it right in the morning. It is dark, it is time my friend.