Ever thought, that the only thing a man can do for ten/twelve hours a day is work.He can't eat for ten hours; he can't drink for ten hours; he can't make love for ten hours.The only thing a man can do for ten hours is ‪#‎work‬.

I'm the only person I know who has slept through a fire drill. Apparently, I pulled the alarm. Yeah, I sleepwalk. Sometimes I sleep run. I was asleep when I ran the Boston Marathon. I was so tired when I finished that I slept for another sixteen hours.

I wanted to sleep with you. I thought about throwing you over my couch fifty different ways, but I haven’t because I don’t see you that way anymore. It’s not that I’m not attracted to you, I just think you’re better than that.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

No real reason for the lack of sleep, it’s a disadvantage of rotating shifts that every so often your body clock just throws up it’s hands in despair and goes to sulk behind the sofa – leaving you suffering insomnia and/or intense fatigue.

I had a dream about you. I think we made love, but I can’t be certain because the scenes were censored by the Moral Authorities. The thing that pisses me off is my grocery list was identical to the Blacklist, so I was starving throughout the sequence.

You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel—a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady

I had a dream about you. I was a giraffe, and you were a stripper using my neck as a pole. We made a great team, sort of like the 1987 Cincinnati Reds, minus the Pete Rose cheating scandal. Well, baseball called it cheating, but I call it enterprising.


I am so tired; all I want to do is sleep. I want to sleep all the day, from dawn until twilight that every evening comes a little earlier and a little more drearily. In the daytime, all I can think about is sleeping. But in the night I do is try to stay awake.

Sometimes when I read before bed I get so tired that my eyes gloss over the sentences without actually taking in any information, as my mind wanders in a pre dream state. That’s also how I drive 99% of the time. The other 1% I’m just flat-out asleep.

My cat likes to wake me up by licking my armpit. Never before have I had such a romantic alarm clock. It’s true, man, I should have been born Harry Truman. He could have been a memorable deodorant salesman, if he weren’t such a forgettable President.

The stillness and stasis of bed are the perfect opposite of travel: inertia is what I've come to consider the default mode, existentially and electronically speaking. Bed, its utter inactivity, offers a glimpse of eternity, without the drawback of being dead.

I had a dream about you. You had just died, and I was debating putting your body into either a coffin or a shoebox. My decision was based solely on spatial concerns, so I chose the ashtray, because I thought it best to smoke your essence like a cigarette. 


I had a dream about you. You looked like you, but you also looked like a mannequin. And I looked like me, but I also looked like a mannequin. Between the two of us, we were too fake even for Hollywood. And as such, we were forced to reside in Washington DC.


Working in a hotel is the anti-coffee shop, because instead of it being a place that’ll wake you up, it’s a place to sleep. And it’s a place to have sex, which is something Starbucks frowns upon (though I’ve never seen anyone frown during sex).