always with the ship metaphors

My sleep schedule doesn’t make sense anymore – I’ve unmoored it from the clock and it floats freely, sometimes scraping the shoreline. At 9 am, an idea for a girlie show flier drags me off my bed and up against my work table. At 4 am, I find I’ve passed out with my chin on the keyboard, endless zzzzzs stereotyped across the page. Was there time between? I go to work on one date, come home the next. Is a beer at six in the morning the same from both directions?