Good morning. It's 5:13am in London now, and I can't sleep. When I was in Houston, body still on Japan time, I slept from 1am to 4pm and that seemed to fix things. Two days ago, when my sleepless redeye touched down, I closed my eyes from 3:50pm to 4:10pm and then ran off to Oxford. That, too, sort of fixed things. I came to London to see a painting. I know essentially nothing about art: in the pursuit of entertainment, I would reductively describe my view of art as falling into either (a) "wow, this is beautiful" (typically applying to old classical landscapes) and (b) "wow, this is definitely more meaningful than I'm thinking" (typically applying to everything else). Obviously classical landscapes also have meaning, but my inchoate eye can't identify, well, anything that goes deeper than whether this painting makes the little, easily-entertained monkey that runs my brain go "ooh ooh ah ah we LIKE this because it's PRETTY".[^1] However, I stumbled upon one painting by John Martin in my junior year of high school, called *The Great Day of His Wrath*. To be precise, it was the cover art for an edit of Mozart's *Lacrimosa* that was uploaded on YouTube, titled, to be precise, "Lacrimosa but the World Has Ended". As someone who could not imagine what Lacrimosa would sound like, had the World Ended, I was quite curious. People usually write (on LinkedIn) about how the harder you have to work for something, the better the payout becomes. I flew across the Atlantic partially to test that theory as it applies to things outside professional development. Going from Gatwick to a train to Oxford & biking across the Thames to see a painting: planning all of this in a 1.5 day trip required overcoming some mental barrier against frivolity that this year — an exercise in frivolity, to some extent — has worn down, whether through experience or through payout. ~ Also: I met Eddie at London Bridge station, where almost [[october 2023|a year ago]] we had ordered six Gregg's sausage rolls in a futile, desperate attempt to feel less sickly; the same station I rushed to when I was only beginning the Europe leg of my travel. I never thought I'd be back in the little student flat (which remains unchanged; in a condition I can't describe) or laughing manically on the walk towards it (also unchanged; sparked by jokes I can't remember). Despite Eddie's joking attempts to persuade me otherwise, I did end up going to Oxford, and I got back to a phone call from Eddie saying that he did not, in fact, leave for Montenegro at tomorrow's 3am but today's 3am. And so, Eddie and I spent our now shortened time together (at least the two hours remained), in the cursed apartment he would also soon leave, by shaving Eddie's head. On my last day, I almost wanted to grab a Gregg's sausage roll out of respect. Alas, I was rushing to the train, as always. Many things change, some things don't — and both are beautiful, and both we move on from. [^1]: Paraphrased.