Alivia Marie Ernest: No For Real This Time... WHY is it 4:30AM?

There is a UK Band entitled "Insomnia," and I was going to link their video to this page. But it's basically just the words "I can't get no sleep," set to very annoying trance-style music that I probably would have liked much better ten years ago -- at 4:30AM.

In 2011, however, I like my pillow...

(See, you try to be creative and weird bands have to come out from the depths of the unknown to haunt you and, without-a-doubt, keep you awake!) It is a good damn thing that I have 17 NEW Law & Order: SVU episodes recorded on our DVR. Ahh. And I put milk in the microwave over two hours ago. I hate the taste of warm milk, but it does help me sleep. Now it is as cold as ice again.

Most people have heard of tryptophan in relation to Thanksgiving—this essential amino acid (a building block of proteins) is responsible for that inevitable nap after a big turkey dinner. Consuming foods that contain tryptophan has long been linked to sleepiness, and it turns out there are traces of the chemical in milk as well as turkey. In the body, tryptophan is converted to the sleep-inducing hormones serotonin and melatonin. But the amount of tryptophan in any food—including both milk and turkey—is not large enough to boost hormone levels so high that they would induce sleep.
Don’t fret, though—if you have been relying on a luscious lactose nightcap for a good snooze, you don’t have to downgrade from gallons to quarts so fast. There might not be a strong biochemical link between warm milk and sleep, but there may be a psychological one.

Sylvia Plath - Insomniac
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole -- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. Over and over the old, granular movie Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams, Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, A garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue -- How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

Sylvia Plath - Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete

film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

I just count the sheep and go to sleep!!!