It's been a very long time since I've written; not quite as long since I've drawn anything of substance, but nearly. I have gotten better at returning to sleep multiple times, and what's more, I am more frequently able to not only remember my dreams, but continue the same dream after each interruption. I am getting better at catching the beginning thoughts of sleep--it is kind of like fishing. You can't do it too fast or too often or you stay awake, but every so often, you have to repeat the last thing you thought; sometimes it is just a normal thought, but sometimes you will catch a sleep-thought creeping in. "I have to get that letter to him." Who? Statements that concern the first blushing plots of dream. This, to me, makes more sense than lucid dreaming, which I always make a mess of.

The days are longer; my hair is longer. I have decided to start cutting it myself, but I believe I am making a mess of it. Wernicke has told me that the fright of onlookers isn't worth the penny saved, but I think he's just being nasty. I think he's always being nasty. But then, this has created a standardized, familiar form of his nastiness that I have become so accustomed to that it no longer strikes me as truly nasty; I merely continue to use the word out of habit, since when I first met him, I did indeed believe myself to be encountering a true instance of nastiness.

Time has become a stranger; I am not sure what part my sleeping habits have played in this. When I sleep, the same things are saming; and I wake, the sames are yet saming. Sometimes I think I am somewhere else, and sometimes I wish I were somewhere else, so that I have begun to discern between, at least in this area, a desire and a belief. I pause things less, and more often rewind them when I return instead. This is troublesome, because it encourages the idea that linear events (real life? but what a sorry sounding phrase that is these days) can be treated in a similar fashion, though there are some that decidedly cannot be.

I would like to believe this connected to a certain lack in moral fibre, though I do not believe I could establish this coherently yet--something pertaining to the absence of the past and resulting absence of the past's lessons, or sorts. If I hate or love, it is due to external factors, or else out of boredom; I am occasionally aware of wanting things I do not actually (regularly) want; a craving? But in the form of a combustive interaction. I have a hard time balancing anything, much less my desire for happiness and my desire for...otherness? More often they consume each other in turns and I am left thinking or wanting. These states are far from unbearable; it is the standardization of them that becomes somewhat, however.

Aside from this, there has been the matter of optical growth; not in quality, but quantity, as if the great god's eye of a fly had been shattered against the earth and all the little pieces, here behind a lump of deformed asphalt, there in the crack between the wall and the floor and the other wall, continue to relay live feedback to a trembling skull with an empty socket. There is a way to subvert them, only I have not found it yet. While silence is not the solution, it is perhaps a necessary condition which things regarding the solution must take in order to avoid the eyes which, of all watched things, watch most intently for insurrections. Further, when a piece of bug-eye sits over that of any other eye (human, animal, vegetable, lens), it becomes very difficult to discern the bug from what-was-there-before-the-bug.

sleep.