My brain has unexpectedly decided it no longer needs healthy quantities of sleep, and apparently wishes to run on an erratic, inconsistent sleep schedule. It insists on using an oblong sleep-wake cycle with small bursts of rest, and long, dragging stretches of tired consciousness.

I glance at the clock; it is ten. I fleetingly remember the old school days when I seriously considered shutting my eyes at this time. I almost scoff. Now it is eleven. I start to feel fatigued, but continue on with whatever activity my brain is currently occupying. It is midnight, and my body begins to shut itself down. The brain however is still out on the rooftops in the rain, refusing to come inside, stomping on the buildings and disrupting the entire earth. It is one. I lie in bed, like a horizontal, flickering streetlight. My mind is haywire, flying light speed through the galaxy while my body is dead, save for the aching in the bones and joints. It is two. I try to remember what it feels like to sink into the dark oblivion of sleep. To feel my body slip away, silent as a cadaver falling into deep blue the ocean; to feel my mind slip through a gentle haze where the strangest things occur and the most meaningless sentences flit around in the sky like water bugs, brilliant and unquestionable. It is three. I kick at the sheets because suddenly my entire body is raw from turning against them. My throat tightens in frustration. I want to scream, but instead I sit up, contemplate walking outside for an escape from my lunatic bed. I despise the indent in my pillow, the smell of me everywhere in the sheets. It is four, and I am suspended just above the heavenly body of sleep, reaching desperately for its little white hairs, trying to latch onto it. I am still foreign; it won’t accept me. It swims away and my bloodshot eyes stare at the ceiling. It is five. I have finally given up. I roll my cheated body out of the bed and slump in my car. I drive out past the city where the horizon is flat and I watch the sunrise. My eyes begin to shut. I realize I am smiling. I climb back into my bed at around eight or nine, and fall asleep thinking about all the creative excuses I will use when the daytime people call my phone and wonder why I never answered.