9-AM, and if I lie down I won't wake up for twelve more hours because I haven't slept since the day before last and this insomnia is starting to get to me. The last burst of adrenaline is the only thing keeping me awake, that and the thought that if I stop moving, I won't be able to pick up where I left off.

We have mice again. Cute, fuzzy little creatures, skittering balls of fur that cross the kitchen floor when they think no-one's looking, unafraid as they leave little dots of refuse on the counter by our kitchen sink, prowling the floor for crumbs and anything edible that isn't encased in plastic. Not that plastic is a big issue, they can chew through that too if they work at it long enough.

I'm beginning to hate mice.

I sit here drawing birds and teaching myself how to paint with pixels, colors flashing on the screen degenerating to nothing but ones and zeros. My work looks like I drew it left-handed until I pick up a pencil and I'm free again, sketching sparrows and crows with the ease of comfort to steady my hand. I think of home, and the leaves turning, much like the leaves of the maple tree outside our apartment, but not like this one because our tree drops dead, blackened leaves that crinkle beneath my feet while those that cling to its branches still shine a pale green glow down upon the concrete like stained glass in the sunlight. There is no red or orange, no vibrant fire. Only coolness, leading to winter.