November 3

Hollywood Blvd.

Such a strange sadness to the night when it’s spent in the quiet confines of your apartment, spent wondering whether others are in the same situation or are out enjoying the city and one another. Yet the greatest of these odd sorrows lies in the fact that the great day has indeed ended and that since you are not out enjoying that eternal nature the night offers, you are left with but one choice, which is the horrible surrender of sleep.

And I have noticed that I loathe sleep the older I get. So much so that I’ve begun indulging in thoughts of deprivation. In fact these past weeks I’ve been averaging somewhere between five and six hours a night, quite a far cry from the eight that I used to get and that is recommended for us all, for some reason. It cannot really be as necessary as it’s made out to be. I don’t believe it. Maybe it’s some kind of myth purported by the hidden powers that be, to keep the masses ignorant and in a whole other level of catatonia to help maintain the status quo, while these knowers of the great truth scurry about and bask in the glory of their supreme knowledge.

Days go by so much faster out in Los Angeles and I have become resolved in slowing them down as much as possible. The days are like a great rush of cleansing ocean water of which you want to garner the greatest amounts possible for yourself to help make you a better man. Yet it rips by you at what sometimes feels like an impossible speed so that come nightfall you’ve retrieved but a spoonful, and you’re left either sad at what you’ve got or furiously confused over whether you’ll soon be getting more.

For at this stage you’re lucky to get a cup’s worth. Those are the good days of this whole humorous, terrifyingly romantic escapade.

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