stopout

About twenty minutes ago, I achieved twenty-four hours of wakefulness. Given how accustomed I am to sleeping between the hours of ten and eleven thirty at night -- given the chance -- the fact that I'm not remotely tired now comes as something of a surprise to me. Still, I've eaten my bodyweight in food, pissed an amount equivalent to the volume of my body as a result of excessive consumption, caught a glees performance and a swingband, ridden gondolas under lamplight, seen a hypnotist, an audience dismemberer, the Bootleg Beatles and Big Brovaz, a manic fireworks display accompanied by O fortuna over the Trinity College backs, and all in the best of company. Enough to keep the mind going through the night and past sunrise.

Now back home, I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself; it seems a shame to crawl out of the black tie and dress shirt, since they never see the light of day otherwise, but mucky I feel, and shower I must, and maybe then, for sensibility's sake, I'll crawl into bed and watch the sky brighten through the open windows, its brilliant blue already showing through the pale yellowness of the sunrise. And maybe sober up along the way.