Tonight I couldn’t sleep and the baby is only responsible for the first hour. The rest, I must take ownership for them myself. Apparently I left the cat outside overnight, which I never ever do. She’s fifteen and diabetic. Maybe I was hearing her cry too.
Is there a connection between poetry and insomnia? Who writes the poetry of insomnia? Is there a kind of creativity that is only possible at 4 a.m.?
I like to think about the sculpture by Alberto Giacometti called "The Palace at 4 a.m." I read about it years before I actually saw it, and when I saw it finally it was so much smaller than I had imagined. It makes me wonder, where’s the pterodactyl when I look out my window?