Sleep at 3:30AM, wake at 6:50AM, business call to States at 7AM. Groggy, but good call. Very solid planning.
Business research, tech stuff in the morning. Editing book. Get tired. Can't be tired. Go for run. Eat curry, bread, salad, fruit juice, iced tea. Wake up. Book is edited. Book is edited? Book is edited! Book is edited.
Why do I have 21 emails in my box? I cleared it two days ago, and I've been answering at least half the incoming email. Note: clear inbox after morning routine and most important thing tomorrow.
Happy. Tired. I wish I was strong enough to sleep 3.5 hours per night and do high level output without crashing, but I crash now. Answer emails tomorrow. I hate sleeping. Tired. Happy.
To be or not to be– that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep
No more – and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
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