In the air

It is 4:18 am. What a dead time. It is the only time when you can meet the world in peace and quiet, though, and peace an quiet are what I need to write stupid essays I don't care about. I would like to think that if I were writing something that had more of my heart in it, I would be able to focus on it despite the thrills and clamour of daily life. As it is, I had to find a space outside of life to complete this task: 3 to 5 am. In this house, hopefully even 3 to 6. I need these hours. Deadline approaches. I am writing an essay about a book about writing novels. Cruel punishment, to make someone write dry boring academic constructions about the full, satisfying life of an artist. As much as I dislike the novelist book, I am more sympathetic to it than I am to my essay. I suppose I should have given myself more time. I always say that: truth is, I just don't care about the homework enough to give it more time. I have other homeworks and other professors that I want to work for. Even sleep was more important yesterday. I should never try to work at night. I should always set my alarm for 3 am and take advantage of dead time. I should never feel guilty about going to bed at 9 pm. I should give up the pretense of trying to string words together after my brain has shut down, after my sympathies are halfway to dreamland.