1:04 a.m.  Halfway under too much comforter, hot and cold and pushing myself toward I don't know what. All the books piled up beside me can't say. Sleeplessness is just the place I go in the middle of the night. But we got hours to go before the middle of the night comes into this here Camp. Sunset still burned across the insides of my eyes. Head pounding how it does, down the the tight spots in my jaw, up where the hinges tie in behind my check bones. So this is 42. Not so far shy of 43. And nothing feels so soothing as that train whistle hauling far off on its way to somewhere. No such thing as poetry without motion.