What happens when you finally stow about the two laggardly-arriving boxes of books in a 9ft x 9 ft garret of a room[1] that already has four other boxes of books, stacked double high, along with a bed and a dresser/table?

You run out of free floor space, and and soon begin to master the flying-squirrely art of leaping into bed right from the door, and crash landing, of course head first, into a pile of books bought in the last two weeks[2] sitting on the bed. Then in the process of displacing them, you pick one of these new arrivals to read (Michael Ondaatje's memoir "Running In The Family"), and end up in this state of insomnia. And you do know that you have a 12 hour work day awaiting you tomorrow.

[1] You miserly wretch, you figured why get a bigger room when you will be spending 60% of your life in hotel rooms and airplanes, and so you didn't consider the times you may be spending at home base - you figured you were strange enough for anyone to dare pay you a visit anyway - or the fact that you have a severe mental disorder whose symptoms require both wall and floor space?!