Surreal Moment #4,627:

1:50, this morning: I had a cigarette while taking a little spin around Ballard. Obstensibly, I was out to buy cat food, but I wanted to finish my cig before I got out of ol’ Jerome.

I drove up Holman Road, which was looking hyper-real due to my recent insomnia. I can’t figure it out–it’s usually anxiety, but my head has been so full of fluff since school let out I should be sleeping like a corpse.

There was nothing but red and white Christmas lights strung up on the trees lining the road. I flipped on the NPR station that plays jazz at night, and it was Stephanie Grappeli, who I normally don’t enjoy at all. But hey, he was playing “Ain’t Misbehavin” and even he couldn’t fuck that one up.

Sometimes, when you’re out at two a.m., and there are Christmas lights and a cigarette, and no sounds except your wheels going “shush” and a weird fiddle version of a Cole Porter classic, you can squint your eyes and pretend you’re someplace else. Someplace nice. And then you can sleep.