I’m not sure why I’m still awake. Except I am sure. I want to take my mind off of everything, and keep it off, and the surest way for it to be on is for it to hit my pillow. Boston was terrible. Is terrible. I have to stop looking at the unconfirmed reports coming tonight. Of all the cities, who knew it would be Boston to go up? Its roots are in revolution, yes… but now? And the news outlets playing a deadly game of telephone. Suspects are brown or black with an accent. What sort of accent? It doesn’t matter. So long as their skin is dark and they sound different. It’s not safe to fail the paper bag test, to sound anything but perfect unadorned American. Throw in the explosion in Texas, flooding in Chicago, and riots in Venezuela… there’s entirely too much and I wonder what is next.

So tonight I’ve listened to/half-watched a Dylan Moran stand up special, and Christopher and His Kind on YouTube. I recommend both. Matt Smith is in the second, and it’s a bit distracting. Quite a few of his mannerisms are so Eleven, and there are a couple of remarks about his character never aging.

I ought to go to bed. I have an appointment in the morning. But I’m not tired enough to fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, and I’m not sure I can take that.