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I'm convinced feeling like my life is constantly in fast forward will never end. Every month seems to fly by faster than the month before, and most of the time I feel like I'm just trying my best to keep up and enjoy the ride.

Last night Max fell asleep before I did, (which never happens because I usually fall asleep about .5 seconds after my head hits the pillow) and as I sat there in the dark I thought about a million things. I thought about one of the books I've been reading and how I hope it ends; I thought about the lesson I need to teach on Sunday. I thought about the groceries I need to pick up from the store and the tailored suit which needs to be picked up on my way home from work. But mostly I thought about this book that sits next to me on my night stand, and this poem (which I've read so far at least a hundred times)

Late Hours
By: Leisel Mueler 

"On summer nights the world
moves within earshot
on the interstate with its swish
and growl, and occasional siren
that sends chills through us.
Sometimes, on clear, still nights,
voices float into our bedroom,
lunar and fragmented,
as if the sky had let them go long before our birth.

In winter we close the windows
and read Chekhov,
nearly weeping for his world.

What luxury, to be so happy
that we can grieve
over imaginary lives."