It's two in the morning. Again. I'm still sick I think and I've been drinking since eleven. It feels weird, unreal. My bones ache but the ache is almost pleasant and I know it's not the alcohol. They're always like this when I'm sick, and I know, I just know that if I keep my eyes closed for five minutes, maybe even less, I'll fall asleep like I did this afternoon. The ache and the sleepiness are connected like mother and son, murderer and murdered. But it's only two and there's still an inch of Jim Beam in the coffee cup and who needs sleep.  

I have to be up by seven or eight tomorrow. Somehow. But that's tomorrow and tomorrow's hours away.