All These Things To Come

So it's around three thirty in the morning and I'm tired of ripping apart poems I liked before I had to write about why I liked them. It's the thirteenth now, and that means there's eight days till my birthday, but more importantly to anyone following this blog, that means eighteen days till we start our trip.
I've been sleeping even less as of late. My bed seems like a good idea, like a good song that I could never really get into. Maybe like one of those really long Russian novels that you know are good, you just know it because the book can sit on your shelf and stare you into submission with it's title alone, and maybe you envision the long-bearded man who wrote it at some fancy event eating a leg of some Siberian animal and discussing the finer points of their genius. But then you probably don't, but I do, and that's probably why I'm trying to distract myself long enough to make me remember that I love poetry but hate writing about it. I'm no academic.
I finished a play yesterday, cut it down from forty three pages to twelve, and I turned it in for a class. People laughed while we read it, and for the right reasons, I think. Or at least, they laughed with fine timing.
I'm sorry, this doesn't have anything to do with the road trip. But you see, it's three thirty in the morning and I'm tired and I think I just want to talk with someone, but there's no one really to talk to.
I've basically got the idea for blackout curtains for the car. I just need to do a bit of stitching and some tactical placement of material and the car should be able to act as an incredibly cramp but private bed.
I cannot wait this long to see the road. It seems like a crime.

Signed,
Andrew