For the last week I can't seem to sleep in. On Saturday I woke up at 5:30. From our bathroom window I could see the sun glinting off the mirrored glass of the Lower Manhattan skyline.
I thought waking up this early was for old people, monks, farmers, or hyperactive children. I'm sure it's a short-lived phase, but nevertheless, it's frustrating.
I wonder if Pablo Neruda was tired when he wrote "Walking Around." Sleep can feel like a respite from being human.
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