It is late on a Tuesday night in Minneapolis, or in the box that I live in in Minneapolis, which is a part (perhaps hence "apartment") of a larger box. There has been some movement on selling the place I lived in in Chicago but no offers yet - maybe someone will be overtaken with emotion from the Bears' impending Super Bowl win and will run out and buy a condo. Maybe my condo.
Mason Jennings has come up on iTunes. I'm too tired, too agitated to sleep. I was going to write in a bit of the lyrics to Fourteen Pictures but I can't make out what he's saying (what is he saying? what is he saying?). "Looking for something that was just right here..."
I feel like I'm all beat up inside and old, a senior citizen hoodlummed in the park at night. Came home and worked, tried to sleep, couldn't sleep. Time to take some WalSleep and drink some vitamin water. I don't know that I'm writing to anyone in particular. I'm a castaway on an island writing to myself just to keep myself on this side of madness.
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