Then by afternoon I'd grown drowsy, but didn't dare to let myself nap for fear that I'd wake up after sunset, and nothing puts me out of sorts more than waking after sunset. Afternoons can substitute for mornings, but evenings cannot. If I'm going to wake up to darkness, I want it to be when the chickens are waking, not when they are going to roost.
Now I'm faced with the problem of staying awake after dinner. If I go to sleep now, I'll probably wake up about midnight, and that's almost as bad a time to wake up as evening. I'll probably resort to caffeine. Anyway, the whole disruption has left me somewhat dazed, and I'm not sure what I'm doing. What tomorrow will be like I have no idea. Maybe I'll be even loopier than I am right now.
And something creaks in my neck every time I yawn, which is often. Weirdness on weirdness.
by Alexander Pushkin
My rubicund critic, my full-bellied mocker,
Ever ready to rail at my desolate muse,
Come here, and sit beside me for a while,
Let's see if we can find a bit of pleasure. . .
Look before you: a few squalid hovels,
Beyond, the black earth, a sloping plain,
And over all a thick line of grey clouds.
Where are the bright cornfields, forests, brooks?
Near the low fence in our yard
Two puny saplings stand to charm the gaze.
Only two. And one of them was stripped bare
By the autumn rain, and the other's leaves, sodden
And yellow, will pile up in a puddle with the first gust.
That's all. Not even a dog prowls in the road.
Oh, here comes a peasant, with two women behind him:
Bareheaded, a child's coffin under his arm;
From afar he shouts out to the priest's lazy son
To call his father and open up the church.
"Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"