"Excuse this letter’s being like a hotch-potch. It’s incoherent, but I can’t help it. Sitting in an hotel room one can’t write better. Excuse its being long, It’s not my fault. My pen ran away with me—besides, I wanted to go on talking to you. It’s three o’clock in the night. My hand is tired. The wick of the candle wants snuffing, I can hardly see."
~ Anton Chekhov, letter to sister Maria, 1890 ~