It's 3:33am and I can't sleep. I was sleeping a while ago, but now I'm quite awake.

I'm thinking in trinkets:

What of a picture of Kate Winslet with text on it, where she talks of her 7-year-old asking her what she'd one day prefer, him being gay or not. I saw that on Instagram.

I'm hoping an order I've made yesterday will arrive tomorrow.

A friend asked me to send him an activation key for Microsoft Windows so I did and I hope it will work.

The National's "All The Wine" is looping in the back of my head.

The longer I'm awake, the longer, more complex and more lucid my thoughts become:

I wonder if some people will stop having their kids vaccinated because of some sentiment in the back of their head saying it'd be bad, because of bad information flooding their doors of perception, e.g. Facebook. Is the Internet, for most of its users, the best way to achieve true democracy, or just another way to add a bunch of TV channels to your existing ones and stop you from thinking by manufacturing consent? If the latter's valid, how's it best to break that chain? To question everything, right? But what if your mind's already trained to just lap up propaganda, ads and shit?

On Monday two new colleagues will start working with me. That an increase of my team with 100%. Nice. How long will it take for them to be up to speed? Took me about 6 months when I started, but that's when we had made about 50% less products than we have today. I want them to feel welcomed and that they are free to ask anything, that all questions count, none are stupid, that they're not stupid in the least. Symbiosis and shit. -- About here I'm getting sleepier -- Inter-personal relationships are infinitely more valuable than business. Bill Hicks. Life's just a ride. I'd like to experience Kuba like when my mate Renate recently went there, her pictures from there kind of seem like the picture-perfect prejudiced image I've got of Kuba as this stuck-in-the-1950s country that withstands the USA, but really there's a lot of other countries I'd really like to visit. I wonder which countries those two near-future colleagues have been to. Will my nearest colleague be back to work today or is she still ill? The Smiths. Still Ill. I wonder how I'm gonna celebrate Morrissey's birthday this year. It's zany and still not, celebrating his birthday. He's got sides that are wacko, and who doesn't? There is no such, thing in life as normal.

I wish X were next to me right now. I'm wondering if that's part of why I can't sleep. I'd love to brush her hair right now. I'm fairly certain she wouldn't want that as it's 04:02am and hopefully she'd be asleep instead. I wish I'd brush her hair from tangled to straight, hearing her moan in delight from feeling the brush slowly going through her hair. Hypnotic.

I've got another song coming on in my head, with a fucking xylophone in it? Backwards-playing guitars. Can only be The Stone Roses. "Waterfall"? No. That other track that's tie-in with it, the one with, what do you call the instrument, a xylophone? I bought that album, the one that's got "Elephant Stone" on it as the first track, and the cover that's a big Jackson Pollock rip-off and when we went to MoMA in New York a few months back there was a big Pollock exhibition and one of his paintings was named "Full Fathom Five" just like that Stone Roses track.

I wish X were here now and she'd just come home from work and I'd play her Big Star's "The Ballad of El Goodo" on acoustic guitar. That's such a sweet song. I think she'd like that. And afterwards I'd kiss her on the cheek and serve her a drink in a glass jar with a huge sprig of mint sticking out of it. It'd be summer and her legs would be sticking out from the balcony window catching the air and she'd relax. Sun tanning her. She could chill out and do exactly what she wanted to. I can easily see that happening. She's like a modern-day Montaigne and I admire her profoundly. And I'd love to tickle her, although not when she's holding a drink.

She could sit or lie next to me in the passenger seat as we'd be driving in the summer. I'd love driving her around the USA more. In a really nice car. With automatic transmission. I want her to be her. Just that. I really only want that. For her and, egoistically, for myself; I want to see her happy. That's almost everything that's important to me described in one single sentence, really.

I saw one of the formerly best skateboarders in the world - or so I've heard - in town a while back. He's no longer skating, he had an accident with a car and now designs clothes instead of skating. I've never really been into skateboarding but when I was little I used to lie stomach-down on a skateboard and roll off. I can only wonder how embarrassing that must have been for my friends. Them skating and why's there among them a human looking like a tripped-over Penguin actually lying on top of a skateboard, who's being out-raced by slugs? I never owned a skateboard and the only friend who'd lend me his for more than a few minutes at a time had the smallest skateboard so while I may have looked paralysed while just lying on it as it was reaching dangerous speeds, it may have had more to do with the fact that I was trying to hold my head, hands and body from scraping against the tarmac and less with trying to enjoy myself. Idiocy. Stupidly, that's how I tried to fit in somehow, I guess. That was about eight years or so before I started listening to Front 242 and dressing all black thinking I was unique and I found my own click of people who were misfits just the same way I was, or so as thought. All unique in dressing much the same way.

Two mates from work are now fathers. They both talk about their kids the way I want to, in the future. There's no snowflake-unique kind of superlative spree with those guys. They're honest and kind. I try to be honest and kind and I like them a lot.

At this minute I hope all of my friends are asleep, dreaming something that'll push them into the unknown and broaden their horizons and their possibilities. Whoo. What a concept at this hour of the night.

I miss David Carr, the journalist. His autobiography was no-nonsense and quite mind-expanding. No apologies, except where they were due. Which they often were, due to his very long problems with addiction. To me, he was a bit like Hunter S. Thompson but without the vapid, superficial fireworks that often made HST a parody of himself. Carr seemed to me to be deeply honest after all the ordeals he went through, and learned from. Not that he finished learning, like us all. He was and continues to be an inspiration, by failing and trying and failing and trying and succeeding et cetera. He wrote really well. Should buy his book.

I'll try to sleep now.