The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

I arise early in the morning, after four hours' sleep, which is never
enough for Chanticleer; later, I will sleep off everything again - most
likely in the midst of the afternoon. Then my repose enters those vast
uncharted realms that every Sleeper fears; I never return as I left, but
in turmoil. My subterfuge is literature; prose lends me its hand when
times and style perfect their moment of truth. Otherwise, prose envelops
with difficulty and lassitude, and I am returned, repeatedly, to the
hustle and bustle of everyday life, a state tending towards more and
greater nightmares and visitations. As you move through your daylight
hours of relative tranquility, you might think of me, fighting with
demons, and never a good fight; it takes energy and acumen I no longer
have, to keep them all at bay.

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