Sleepless.

I can't sleep. I keep listening to my show.
I get like this when I make something new. I can't put it down. I can't stop staring. I can't stop listening.
I am glad that new mothers are allowed to hold their children all the time.

I will hate myself in three hours when I am supposed to wake up.
I don't have my scripts for tomorrow.

It's the end of reading week, and I haven't noticed its passing. Class is a small part of my life. The essays are looming, however.

There's a burn on my hand. An angry looking reddish brown bite, between my thumb and finger. I was roasting vegetables for a sauce at home, and I touched the element inside the oven.

There's a burn on my heart. On the place where I've ceased to listen.