It’s 2:40 in the morning, and only recently did I stumble into this room from my professor’s house. I had too much wine there, way too much, more wine than I can count, or at any rate, more wine than I care to remember. The whole experience, though—the wine and the hours of poetry and the drunken wandering through the night with my companions—has given me an odd feeling of insight into the especially beatific mindset of the beat generation, something which I’ve never had but is a little bit gratifying to feel at this late hour.
I want to stay out there, to wandering around the parliament until morning, to hear the rocks skitter across the ice like laser beams (because that’s what they sound like if you toss them at the water, a science fiction wonderland) but I cannot bring myself to return out there. My friends are gone, hopefully asleep, or at least contemplating sleep; at any rate they are not here. Nor is there anyone at this late hour to commandeer, though I may desire the company of certain persons greatly.
In eight hours I have to recite Greek poetry and turn in a Greek paper, in roughly that order, which means maybe I ought to work on them in that order, except that I know that the poetry will be easier to memorize right before bed. Then again, I’m uncertain that I will even be able to sleep tonight, nor am I certain that my memory works the same way after sufficient wine; Homer might be able to tell me, that old bastard, but he’s as long gone as my friends.
But maybe I should work instead.
