Some kind of blues riff

I was supposed to be in bed a half an hour ago, or two hours.  I am tired; logic tells me this, and other things that stand to reason, despite an unsettling backdrop of ill-mindedness. I am more lucid than I wish to be, and than I should be, at this late hour. I feel like a shadow, watching myself from across the room, like the ghost of Christmas past. Spirit, remove me from this place!

Today should have been a good day.  In fact, it was.  Quite good, in a few ways. But something hovers over me that I cannot place--or rather, I cannot place myself, where I am or ought to be. Thoughts follow each other like music on staves, in harmonic counterpoint, a minor key, closer to a pentatonic scale maybe.

These notes are just a fraction of a song-cycle I will never compose. The page is silent, and so is this house. If another soul were here, I would no doubt hear them breathing, a room away. I'll let the furnace run instead, and listen to the absence of concern, as warmth strikes the walls. What I wouldn't give for a lullaby.

Try to imagine you are sleeping in the passenger seat. Have a warm drink, and go to bed. Nothing that is happening now has ever happened before, no need to be surprised about it.