They say tonight’s the longest night of the year. But I’ve already had at least a dozen dozens longer since January. That makes this the year’s shortest day, too. But days, no matter how long, go by in just a blink when you live from one sleepless night to the next. Each day’s just another little box full of meds, each with a lid wearing a 3-letter signifier that it’s WED or SUN, which is the one where I refill them for another seven blinks without a thought and seven more dead-bodied stares while my mind’s milling around about you and them and sometimes me. That’s when I compose my best work - the stuff that never gets written. But actually, that best’s more like like a drunk’s singing voice or his irresistible charm. Except a drunk’ll fall asleep at some point.