We made a night of throwing things at the moon, in a vague attempt to pretend we had a sea. When morning came, it was clear nothing landed. Angry that we were in no frame of mind to be walking, we slept in the car.
The next day was a pleasant change of pace. We were playing a game of Scrabble and hoping someone would ask to join us. When they did, we decided not to remind them of rules they forgot. It bothered us, but who really wants to be that unnecessary.
Eager to have some sort of recognizable sleep schedule, we went to bed early. In our haste we stayed up all night. Only when we discovered that all our heroes were assholes, did we find ourselves tired.
Hemingway was a drunk womanizer. Miles Davis beat his women. Combine those two and a cigar, and you have yourself a night.