I suppose this is not true insomnia. I did sleep for a couple of hours, before I awoke out of stimulation and curiosity and desire.

Do I run away to New York to attempt to live in a city I can’t afford to live in? To be a writer in a garret in mimicry of La Bohème , to fall in love with a woman not my wife? Do I want to spend my final years as a fugitive from a John O’Hara novel? I could do worse, I suppose .