The Unauthorized Biography of Rosco P. Coltrane

When it's my moment in the sun, I won't forget that I am blessed, but every hero walks alone, thinking of more things to confess

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Location: Owensboro, Kentucky, United States

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Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Nightswimming Deserves A Quiet Night

I have tried everything to get to sleep tonight. Nothing has worked.

John Steinbeck once said that "It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it."

I am trying to think of anything that is keeping me up, but I can't really think of anything that is different than the normal and everyday problems and stresses that I always have.

I wish I could be a night owl, I really do. Nighttime is so much more mysterious and intriguing. The way that your headlights shine against the broken glass in the gutters that shines like a mirror image of the stars up above. The cool night air that finally gives a breif stay of execution from the humidity that the day always seems to bring. And for some reason, music sounds better coming from my car stereo at night. The notes seem so much more full and deep without the light of day. I even love waking up in the middle of the night when I am sure that I have written the perfect poem in my sleep, and I scour around me looking for my glasses, a pen and a piece of paper. And sometimes, whe I am too tired to get up and write something down, I fall back asleep with the contentment of figuring out how the world works, only to forget it by the dawn.

My mom always used to tell me that nothing good happens after midnight.

I never did think that was right. After midnight is when the world get simple. It is when we mortal men become immortal and invincible, only to find out too soon that the night has sold us a lie. It's when we get in trouble and find repentance in the anonimity of the darkness. Because no matter what happens at night, we know that the dawn will always break. And everything will be fine.

Yeah, I like night.

But I just wish I could find that damn commitee of sleep that Steinbeck was talking about. And I hope I dream, something grand, strange and wonderful.

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