Trumpeting Ass

Were I to sleep I’d ruin a perfect record of sleeplessness, and that I will not be privy to, not when the birds will soon be a-twitter and the sky bluer than azure stones. I will await the bluestone blueness of the morning sky, a blue that summons up moraine lakes and oceanic blues, a glacial blue, perhaps bluer. Furthermore, I have tasks and attendants to attend to today and sleep will simply encourage battlement and confusion, which I have more than enough of for one day, two perhaps. ‘And he made a trumpet of his ass’. Dante, my dear man, you have made my day yet again. You never fail to amuse me, something, I fear, I have little time or patience for, or battlements and addled thoughts, both of which, as you know, I have in vectors and droves. I think I hear a twitter, perhaps a shrilling; it’s simply a matter time before the sky turns a bluestone blue, perhaps bluer yet.