Another of those late night cravings

It's not so "normal" to wake up sometime in the dead of the night, a few hours after you've only painfully put yourself to sleep, with an inexplicable craving that you struggle to decipher for some chaotic moments but which thankfully builds up soon enough into a mini-epiphany, instantly translating the unease into a desperate need for a certain song. But admittedly, I've never been in the business of being "normal". (Very few of us ever are, so I always have a problem with the semantics of that word, but that's for another day.)

Bob Dylan. The times they are a-changin'.

The floor's a little cold (Paris has an eerie habit of mirroring my moods. It rained today.), my sleep-deprived eyes cringe at the laptop's audacity in the dark while the blanket I have around me is half-trapped in the bed corner but who cares, really. The night's pressing on, unrelenting as it always is, but I'm not really there anymore.

Oh how fleeting and soulless, how terribly prosaic our nights would be if it weren't for our cravings, those quirky little knots of redemption.

Dear Diary

There's crass football on tv, a darkly painful hole in a tooth,
dried ketchup on the nightstand, that compulsive boredom of youth,
a flight of stairs in delirium, and a half-burnt receipt for truth.

(Is that Mahler I hear? Wagner, perhaps?
They sure don't seem a cheery lot, these dead chaps.)

Ah yes, the writing, I almost forgot. Just a moment, honey,
I seem to have misplaced my finely-tuned sense of theatricality.
It must be here somewhere close by, surely
awaiting my cue, rhyming in loops, rehearsing endlessly.