My internal chronometer got me up right at 5:00. I haven't needed an alarm clock in at least a decade. Kinda funny, how circadian rhythms work like that. I just wake up instantly.
Had a dreadful dream about giant centipedes -- like those spindly-legged ones, only these were as big as my hand, with legs about as thick as pencils. They were in Grant Park, skulking about. I kept squishing them, but they kept appearing. Yucko! Frickin' giant centipedes! *SQUISH*
I've been reading Peter Straub's "Ghost Story," although it's been slow-going for me. Something about his style of writing, it's just heavy, ponderous. I mean, a 23-page prologue, for god's sake. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm about 123 pages into it, and I'm still not particularly into it, so I feel like he's failed me as a writer (I don't think I've failed him as a reader because I've persisted, despite not being moved by the story or the characters). I've tried to read Straub before, and there's just something about the way he writes that drags on me. I'm reading it because it's been touted as an exemplary ghost story (I remember the dreadful movie made from it), so it's sort of a reconnaissance read for me.
