I can't sleep again; it seems I always need intoxication - by then, I will sleep too much. Perhaps it was the tea, supposedly chamomile, but probably a chamomile plus other leaves of a real tea, that's why.
We find ourselves writing like the authors we read, and more. I was leafing through Jane Eyre, and no, I am not really in the mood for classics now really, but I just did, for the feel of old. Suddenly I find that in my mind's voice, I sound rather like that, a bit staid, rather Victorian though not completely - modernised form of course.
I do not think I write like Murakami's translated novels, simply because it is translated from Japanese to English. I do find that, he words thoughts I have thought of, of perhaps never have, in a simple conversational way, that leaves your heart with a missing beat to be lost forever.
Suddenly I do not feel like writing this thread any longer at this time; perhaps another time, and I will go find away to coax myself to sleep as quickly as possible.
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