I need sleep

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This is... all so fluffy. Like bats, all on a row. A wall. Are walls rows? But don't you think grease tastes good like that?

Okay, I don't know. Neither do you, really, but that's not the point.

What's to know?
Slumping in his wheely chair, the illustrious man knows only the boundaries of a wandering mind. Trapped in a wizard's tower, distant, aloof and isolate, a perfect example of the pristine. Pristine. Maths on a whiteboard in peace, if only one could get up to write... too far away from here. Bad angle, too. Can't even read what the other fellow is figuring. It's black, it's small, it involves derivatives. Partial derivatives; even I would recognise those anywhere, and I am no dreamer of maths.

Just tired. So, so tired.

No, no, no. That's all wrong! I didn't mean anything. Even when I told the honest man I loved him, all I meant was love. He seemed so beautiful. He seems it still, wafting about on his own wings of dreams... funny how many there are, around here. Like pudding. Flying puddings in the sky, all gleaming so merrily, so, so merrily.

I even love the fellow who enacted the fingering of my spite - he was the hand of justice, so to speak. A hand of... handliness. Hands. So many hands, waving in the breeze, a great field of hands... they are the new grains, serving the new worlds, the new civilisation, the new top creatures. Hands for the world, hands for spite.

It's funny[edit]

Am I this set in my ways? I'm making no sense, not even to myself, and I'm typing at the rate of a slug on steroids, but there are so few words underlined with the squiggly red NO U! that it makes me start to wonder if this is not already a dream, if I have not already fallen entirely asleep, if these words are just more ramblings running through a mind unable to grasp any semblance of external reality. Not that that's any more real than fish, though. He ate the fish. It ate him all up, mister. Ate him all up like guuh, and for some reason I never spell that right. Except this time. I got it right this time, because this time I'm dreaming.

This time I'm dreaming.
Ascending the stairs, there is a strange anticipation. Reaching the top for the first time. Feeling the clouds dampen your skin. Looking out on the vast panorama of the world below, meagre, uneven, so very unimportant... meanwhile you're still climbing. Still sleeping to reach the top, not daring to seek lest the whim passes and you decide to turn back. No, the top will be, it will be, and there the world will be mine! I will see everything.

So I'm still climbing. You're still climbing. Meanwhile the world lies all before us, but it does not matter, because it is not the top; only there can we actually look out and truly see. Except we never actually do make the top. The whole point of monumental staircases is that you never get to climb them, at least not to the top, never to the top, because to do so would Ruin Everything.

Have you ever tasted ruined bacon? Not good. Not good at all.

Fingering his nose[edit]

There is a dishonest man wandering the streets of Vancouver. He is old. He is cold. He is dreary, and he speaks no lies. Never trust a man who only knows truth; he will try to tell it to you, and it will all be wrong.

Look here.
The girls chatting merrily by the counter, brightly dressed, avidly engaged. This is the focus of their day, the highlight of the moment, and they are enjoying every second in good company. And over there, slumped on an armchair, hat over his eyes, a creature dreams, mouth agape, utterly oblivious. Too old to be a boy, but too young to be a man, he sleeps at the threshold of bemusement. The rest of the room ignores him; they are too focussed, all too focussed. The two fellows hunched over the one's laptop, the other leaning over his shoulder - some great achievement is before them, some revelation to be hailed. Perhaps they will not fail the Systems lab, after all... but it is all so alive. The entire room is alive, full of chatter and light and life, excitement and bemusement and complete and utter disparity. It is a grand room, this atrium. A grand room.'

Perhaps some day I will get the opportunity to return are realise how small and dark it really was, and how my memory of the giant fishes dangling from the sky has yet again failed me.

I need sleep.