Night #1

Crawled and searched for my earphones buried deep in my purse. It's 3 am. Bob Dylan's harmonica transports me back to that long dry dusty cornfield at Hollister one time near a bus stop in between our 10 hour trip from San Francisco to LA. Strips of desert, apple orchards and ranches. How much of a good cliche that it had an abandoned merry-go-round. At the other side, a tiny town fair. A smallish number of rednecks gather in front of the local produce stalls of honey, wine and apple ciders, who mostly in jeans, torn, turned into shorts with spaghetti strap tops and white shirts are up and about, all a bit bouncy but seemingly carrying blank faces. No tumbling weeds, just stale air, almost dead.

I cannot sleep again, after years of insomnia, this must be one of the worst nights.

Most nights, leaves shine like silver, tonight though, no light reflections on their surfaces. I told you through text that I could only see the silhouette of those branches waiting to snatch me from bed and eat me whole like that from the poltergeist movie. not good. Things morphing into horrific creatures. I get to doze off from time to time only to dream about me being awake in the same bed,in the same room, then wake up for real, disoriented thinking why the wall is on my left where it should be at my right. I could have fallen off the bed when i was violently turning to get a good position.

Dylan's getting annoying like a whinny kid, and his harmonica is starting to sound like a squealing sound of an accordion being played by a novice. I say if you don't like your neighbor learn how to play an accordion or a violin at the window where he sleeps.I should try to sleep again.