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Eleven fourteen on a Tuesday night and I'm back on this goddamn cot, a miserable arrangement of canvas and metal that has been slowly conspiring against my spine for the better part of a month. I don't suppose I've slept more than a few hours at a time in weeks, and whatever faculties I've managed to preserve are beginning to behave in ways I don't entirely recognize. But there have been some good people looking after me, some unexpected graces amid the wreckage of recent days, and I find myself profoundly grateful for them, even as the rest of me seems determined to come apart.
So I lie here watching the ceiling fan turn and letting my mind go where it will, back through the years and into the company of old bastards, strange grievances, and memories that have no particular business visiting me at this hour. Somewhere along the way, I begin to feel that familiar switch, when the warmth goes out of things and the machinery in my head starts operating according to some other domain. I don't know. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe I've just been awake too damn long.
NIGHT MATERIALS
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