asking God for mercy, and weeping in unholy places...

Ah. Previously, in bleak or difficult times, I would crave oblivion. However, I've since learned, in modern parlance that Oblivion can be:
a) The world's first vertical drop roller-coaster (cf. Alton Towers. Bad.);
b) A bar in Clapham - not intrinsically bad, but seemingly perpetually packed with some of the most self-obsessed, solipsistic wankers Clapham has to offer. And since there's a lot of them there, that's saying something.
In particular option (b) - on an incredibly hot night, why would anybody want to go somewhere that's so rammed you can barely move, only to have to shout over the thumping shite music to have a pointless conversation with someone obnoxious, who barely even notices you're alive, because you're not them? Yet, somehow, it seems popular. I noticed it whilst walking past to a pleasant pub.
But, then again, to return to the question, if not Oblivion, where are we to get our rest? Sleep? But perchance to dream, as some whining Scandanavian once observed. Death? See above (actually, I can't really countenance the "perchance to dream" view here - you're dead, right? But I suppose you never really know....) Non-being is becoming harder to find....