I love Charlie Chaplin, but Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd seem to have more depth. Somehow.
Right now I can't quite dissect what I'd watched last night (a tribute to Chaplin, then The General, Our Hospitality, and Now or Never), having gone to bed at five a.m. and gotten up late and cotton-headed for work . . . where I'm getting a brilliant memoir ready for the design department---or trying to, as I keep nodding off over the text, my eyeballs feeling like orbs of grime, and at the same time I'm trying to read and digest the words, though I don't have to read anything at this early point in the production process, just code the material (chapter number, chapter title, lists, lists, lists), but I can't help reading the words anyway because SS's lists are both illuminating and irritatingly childish.
("Must not be so judgmental. It is vain.")
I haven't stayed up this late in a while. During NaNoWriMo I went bed at the latest by two every night (I think). Tonight is going to be a late night as well, but I haven't done two back-to-back late nights in ages. Tomorrow morning promises to be similarly discombobulating.
Oh, and I didn't have time for coffee this morning. That might be part of it . . .
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