I have not slept a wink. My right eye looks like it's popped a vein, and it may have. And now that it's been mentioned, it's beginning to manifest. Ouch.
I was up late, drawn into a world of demons and angels, of gods and demigods, of esoteric banality (blashpemy isn't necessarily synonymous. Isn't that why I enjoy Gaiman?). And it's usually due to being sucked into fantasy worlds that I lose sleep. Even with my eyes closed.
I find it a little disconcerting how comfortable I am in pastiche. How I can easily settle with suspesion of disbelief because I am shown things familiar to me - my own meanderings. I am aware of the pull of seduction. But I don't doubt my lack of it any longer. I nitpick tho. Why are his secondary heroes always either fierce women or spineless dipshits? Why are his usual main protagonists self-serving assholes? I also can't help but notice that in Gaiman's stories, domestic tragedies are usually irrelevant, unless you were some immortal's spit borne.
Which leads me back to the reason for my escapism, from the fire back to the pan.
To my own little domestic tragedy and a realization. We let our tragedies slick off our shiny little bodies or e turn out lives upside down for conclusion. It's all we have. Aren't we all just flies after all?
And Im a fly pancake, if you've ever seen one.
(I'm on volume 56 of Lucifer)
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