It's getting later, every night that I stay up. If I have to hear the birds chirp me through my insomnia one more morning at 6 am, I might cry. Or laugh, because what else can I do.
After a while you've thought of it all. Love, hope, the future, past, present, you fucking name it, and it would've been thought of. You feel empty of thoughts. As if the chronic sameness of it all will somehow reduce you in some way. To what, I've no idea.