Trasnochada

It is two in the morning and I have been working for twelve hours, obsessively trying to finish off two horrible piddly pissant projects that for reasons unfathomable refuse to give up the ghost. My eyes are seared flesh, my back is twisted in knots, my hands are jittery from the Bottomless Mate Gourd I've been nursing all day and my brain is a charred circuit, one synaptic pathway flaying loose and uncontrollable against the wire fence of my volition. Dangerous territory. No position in which to be writing blog entries.

But. Open nights. Nights without limits, agendas, restrictions, or consequences: nights with no sense of day. Am I the only one who succumbs to these things, who willfully forgets the breaking point of the body and joyfully wrests every last volt of one day's bodily energy to the cause of This Night, so alive with the flutter of wings?

So I have the energy, at the very least, to post this photo, which my wife was good enough to send me, and which I find spectacular.