I do not know the name of my sleeplessness. My one night of pleasant dreams played a trick on my mind. As now, I am back to the heat, to the wide eyed wonder, to the internal begging for exhaustion. I make my nest full, feather pillows under my neck, above my head, in my arms. My mother too goes to bed in a chair-nest, a reminiscence of our childhood concoctions, the love-seat her cliched sandman.
Although I try to exhaust myself by running, limiting the flow of coffee to my veins, there is a period in early dawn that I somehow cannot conquer. How uncharacteristic, that I entertain the notion that I do not fully control my fate.
