Couldn't sleep. Opted to start reading Blake Butler's Nothing. Best worst idea ever. Lidded and loaded. Coldly caging in poetry what it means to be lodged in that liminal holding pattern of unsleep. Plus, it cites both Brian Eno and Anton LaVey. No mention of J.G. Ballard's insomniac hymn, "Manhole 69," but I can live with that.
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