Rest.
Sleep doesn’t come easy before the long sorties of shows. My brain is buzzing with everything I might forget. The last-minute checklists read like the preparation for an art-school apocalypse. Razor blades, black table cloth, straw-colored gels, 9-volt batteries, pillow, deodorant, gaff tape.
Then again, I don’t think sleep has ever come easy for me. I was a teenage insomniac, always waiting for the blue-gray dawn to forgive me for my dismal thoughts.
Time has passed. I still lie awake and stare at the ceiling like a boss. But at this point I’ve learned to entertain myself so that I don’t need anything except for the back of my mind.
I write stories that I un-write in the morning light. I hum songs that no one will ever hear. I wrestle with myself, debating with the dark demons from within and come to huge life-changing decisions.
All of it disappearing after the morning takes hold.
Sleeplessness is my worst friend and my favorite enemy. We love to hate each other. But we’d never leave one another. (Starting tomorrow, we’ll be touring hotel rooms and their stucco ceilings for whatever dreamy thoughts they’ve got to give.)