Ah, sleep. That elusive, mythical creature whispered about in hushed tones by the “productives.” They speak of it with a reverence bordering on the religious, these eight-hour evangelists. But for those of us in the know, sleep is a cunning con artist, a master thief who plunders our most precious commodity: time.
Take me, for instance. My sleep schedule is a Picasso painting compared to the regimented “early bird” routine. I operate on a system I call “Chronological Improvisation.” It’s a fluid, ever-evolving masterpiece that would make Dali proud.
Last night, for example, inspiration struck like a rogue meteor at 4:20 am. Suddenly, the novel I’d been wrestling with for weeks demanded my immediate attention. Now, who am I to deny the muse when it arrives in a shimmering toga, brandishing a quill the size of a telephone pole? So, I surrendered, lured by the siren song of creativity into the wee hours…
DMT 