An Ode To Insomnia


I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be clean, the floorboards of their skulls well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of their bed. The night sometimes feels like the hardest time to be alive and 2:47 a.m. knows all my secrets.

So I got up and put on my trusty slightly battered head torch and stole out of the house quietly and peddled the silent streets. Perplexed sentries blinked uncertainly as I waved. I roamed my garden and put my fingers into the soil.
I drew a picture of my dream fragments and tried to bake a cake. And now as the silent hours fade with a low hum, my eyelids start to droop and I notice that i have flour on my sleeve.

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