Sunday at the BPL

For the second week straight my Saturday night featured 90 minutes of sleep, and that punctuated by heinous dreams of random scary bar encounters with undesirable men whose profiles I'd seen on OKC, and this whole week has, as articulated in an e-mail just composed to my friend Chris, kicked the emotional shit out of me, and there seems no way to turn the brain off and let the tranquility catch up and, even though online Scrabble helps and so do friends like Chris (as well as Girl C, Boy B, the other Choir Boys and Girls, Ben's band, the Southie for McGee volunteers, etc., etc.) and so does finding a toy car on the bus and, this afternoon, listening to Gregori Allegri chants and checking projects off the checklist .... yet I can't help but be so damned unsatisfied with things that maybe the only thing to cure the restlessness is to put on the Asics and iPod, get the legs churning towards the Charles River Esplanade, buck the wind tunnels and capture the last 47 minutes of sunlight before sleep wins this battle.