It's dark outside.

Merde.
I woke up in the dark, which is a bad sign when you're still dealing with jet-lag, because it typically means you've woken up way too early, and are going to have a hard time getting back to sleep. In this case, it means that I have woken up too early, and I'm going to have a hard time getting back to sleep.
I woke from more fitful dreaming. Perhaps I'm having too much cheese before bed. I can't remember the context of the dream, just the feeling of having been dealt an injustice. Of having been given something I deserved, that I had earned, and at the same time having it taken away.
The clock read 1:23 a.m. when I woke up. I need to get back to sleep, I'm supposed to go pick grapes at 7a.m.. I sat in the dark for a while, listening to the moth that's trapped in my room flying into the wall over and over again. Moths are morons. I found out last night that the French word for Moth translates to 'butterfly of the night,' and I wondered if I'd like them anymore if I thought of them as butterflies. I don't think so.
I tried to count sheep, but the sheep turned into some kind of muddy water or oil coming out of a fountain and forming numbers in the sky and in my mind they were getting my feet all wet and dirty, plus I couldn't settle on which language to count in, so I stopped.
Then I started entertaining myself with fantasies that I'd actually publish this whole adventure, and the book would be wildly successful and I'd do a book tour and insist that my publisher get me on the Jon Stewart show. It was at that point that I decided I was brilliant, and got up to start writing.

When I turned the light on I found out that the moth was actually a grasshopper. There are some big-ass gnarly grasshoppers here. Like, the kind that don't just fly away when you get close to them. They sit in the grapevines, and when you reach in to pick the grapes they look at you like 'we don't take kindly to your type around here...'