The sleeplessness that dare not speak its name

Consequentialism, as a species of utilitarianism, suggests that it is not a good idea to be clicking and clacking keys at such an early hour. Lyricism, for what worth, begs off all questions other than those birthed by necessity.

It's not always clear which lessons matter. Sometimes the conversion experiences stemming from close encounters with the sidewalk or chance perusals of the "e" section of the dictionary disrupt the decision trees that grant coherence. Sometimes the vibrating cell phone in the front pocket is the vehicle by which a radically different framework will insist on its primacy. Sometimes a rose is a rose is a rose, and other times it's an assemblage of petals, pistils, and other reproductive entities. Which lessons matter may be a function of which prompts can be rendered in concrete terms. Failing that, a function of which teachers you allow to puncture the skein of your world's rotund balloon.

I have a rather involved theory that insomnia can be good for me, under certain circumstances. These are not those, based on the above paragraph. I listened to an argument today about the relative merits of the Beatles' "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and then had an out-of-body experience that left me with mustard all down the front of my shirt. I don't know how this relates to consequentialism or lessons learned, but it did catalyze the little hamster to run some laps on the exercise wheel of my brain and the squeaking continues. I don't discount the value of mustard based on its potential to ruin articles of clothing, especially since approximately 35% of torso clothing of short sleeved persuasion has holes through which a hummingbird could enter. But I do take issue with discussions of Beatles songs that defy predicate logic and exhibit a fundamental inability to understand chronology. No harm done, as they say, and it's a pity we all have to listen.