Insomnia

Trying to fight off the sleep that seems to only come when not wanted and then never again. The stomach tonight will begin to eat everything including the actor, starting from the inside. What movie will it be now, now that the whole library is in the piece of credit-card-sized hardware. You could not make this, up, the lineup looks like The Man from Laramie, Say Anything, Bright Future, Husbands and Wives, Ulysses, Moby Dick, White Noise (book not movie), a self-portrait of John Irving done in cursive, the most recent issue of Reader’s Digest. And there is the man painting pictures of Jesus, and Mary, and the disciples, and Calvary and the Cross, and the dream finds me in the church, then in the hotel and then running from the man with gun that wants to steal my stories, but they can’t be stolen. “They are my stories, you fucker!” I give him all of the paper, but there is encryption and invisible ink, and he talks like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy, “G’head! G’head!” and Jon Voight is dreamy but not so much as Jimmy Stewart, and I play all of the parts, especially Hoffman and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, in this dream of this movie of these movies in my dreams, I play all of the parts except Jimmy Stewart, I could never hope to be that good.