A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-And-Forty-One

 It is already after two in the morning.  I've been writing for the last several hours, attempting to get through my planned work for the day.  In truth, I hadn't even realized how late it was until I got to this point, writing this blog entry.  Most of the work was writing poems, and it is easy to go from one poem to another, for me, without stopping to think.  I get into a rhythm or a mode, and I just keep going.  Switching to writing this prose journal, however, requires a shift in thinking, and it was when I made that shift that I realized the time, and recognized just how tired I am.  Maybe I was not actually tired before, since I didn't notice it, maybe writing poems brings me into a state where tiredness is irrelevant.  I don't really think so, to be honest.  I just think it was momentum, and that I am babbling here because I am tired.  Maybe I was babbling in some of those poems, but that can work well, at times, in certain poems at least.  What does any of that even matter?  I am just tired, that is all, that is what it all means.  Even if I wasn't tired when I was writing poems, I am now.  And now I am done with my work, so it is best I get myself to bed.

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