Mediocre Transcendency

Mm. Sleep reigned eh. I lacked the resolve, the tenacious determinacy to extricate myself from the willingly ineluctable mud-flats of lethargy. The smooth seas of slumber.
Those seas in which i should immerse myself now, in the early hours of the morning, when lassitude pervades and sleep evades. Yet these hours find themselves well spent. They are the pinnacle of productivity, the flush of fecundity, characterized by literary prolificacy, the fertile hours when one ascends out of the imbibing depths of torpidity, to an altitude where the branches are plethoric with rich, ripe fruit, gradually fashioned into a jam of ridiculous late night ramblings, contradictory, futile, and abruptly ended.