Around midnight these days I usually feel suddenly very tired, but I'm reluctant to take a nap and instead will just wait it out. That's how I end up writing journal entries at five o'clock in the morning. I doubt the entries are any better than they'd be at other hours, but this is when they end up. My brain goes on little adventures of its own but always refuses to talk about them when it returns. I'm sure it's up to no good. It's probably in league with my teeth and my stomach. It's certainly not in league with me anymore.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about a fever I had when I was perhaps eight years old. It occurs to me that perhaps I died of that fever, and everything I think I have experienced since then has been a fever dream in my failing brain, which has escaped the bonds of time and has generated this illusion of long survival during its last few seconds of activity. When I have this thought I then often hear the voice of William Bendix as Chester A. Reilly, radio comedy character, saying his perennial line, "what a revoltin' development this is!"
And then I realize that I haven't dreamed any of this, never had that fever, never even existed. I am a fictional character in a fever dream being had by a dying Chester A. Reilly. None of this is my fault! Soon, someone will turn off the radio, the light on the dial will fade out, the tubes will stop humming and turn dark, and everything will get cold, and I won't even know what happened. It's a very comforting thought. I do still worry a bit about the ratings, though. It's been such a stupid show.
And this is what happens when I don't get my bedtime chocolate.