The Mind Gets Dry, Dry, Dry

It's five past one, and my brain feels too dessicated to continue philosophizing, or processing philosophies, or synthesizing manifolds.  But the coffee was very strong, and I know that if I try my hand at sleep then the night dogs will bite it.

So...

Outdoors a gale is hustling by but frantic

to get some where where the pressure's low.

 

Even the young redwoods avert themselves, as from an obnoxious houseguest who refuses to leave or to shut up.  And Strange People are out (if only so the windblown bacchanalia of fallen leaves will have a startled witness). The weird and homeless find their cigarettes are burning too quickly. There are miniature tsunamae in the eddies of the San Lorenzo, causing jagged distortions in reflections of the moon. Somewhere below the surface, at the depth of a sheet of saran-wrap, an Old Spirit who's been sleeping for an age comes creaking back to wakefulness, only startled by storminess, again settled by the fluffy Central California stillness.  So sleepy she rises, so quick to drift back, she can scarcely get cogent of what has gone on in those brief fits of being.

 

Wearing off, wearing off