I am alternating between the screen and a thick envelope folder stuffed with articles and print-outs, willing myself to do more reading for my research paper, but I've run into a block. I can take no more in. I've probably reached saturation point but am too stubborn to admit defeat. Or I could be procastinating.

I'm feeling my age tonight. I'm tired, nothing more. The world always seem older, more cynical, when one is tired. I so dearly want to curl up on a red sofa, with a big red cushion at my back, talking softly to someone who wouldn't mind that I am half asleep, not very coherent, and quite quite tired. That always seem to revitalise me, somehow.

It's a dream night, when I ache to write whatever my heart is dictating so insistently - only the words seem beyond my vision, beyond my fumbling grasp. I can feel the images, but ...

I need to go home. These words are better captured on the thin white pages of my paper journal.