As I drag the toxic, yet ever so satisfying smoke protruding from the lightly tanned end of the my final cigarette of the day, I remind myself of the adventures that the golden brown sun, similar to that in color of the butt of the cylindrical death machine I almost ignorantly worship clasped between my index and middle finger, soon to be rising in the distance holds in store for me tomorrow.

Apathetic to the idea of sleep, though understanding and fully aware of the vitality and replenishment it brings to my body, I decide to retire my brain, and let go of the events of the day that has so recently passed, in exchange for cheap...... optimism that tomorrow will be of equal, and/ or greater significance to my dull, yet appreciated life.

Even as I write this, I begin to feel the almost dismal apathy I once held to the thought of sleep evolving into delightful anticipation for turning off, tuning into my body's like clockwork release of it's natural anti-psychotic, dimethyltryptamine, and dropping out of my perceived
reality, only to systematically resurrect once more in 8-9 hours, to repeat the soul-enslaving routine of everyday life. Merely existing, when one should be living, though even simply living today has now become somewhat of a luxury.

I now am fighting the pull of gravity on my own eyelids, and can feel the lonesome, pleading call of sleep, whom of which I have been neglecting as of late. It's warm embrace, and promising journey to a psychedelic dreamland, of which I can attempt to manipulate to that of my heart's desire, I must surrender myself to now. Back to the comfortable solace, similar and familiar in aesthetics and anesthetic to that of a womb for eight hours, just to be wretched back into a figurative hell for sixteen.

Just like clockwork.