Some nights

Some nights I see as clearly as a child being taught a lesson that something’s gone wrong. Or rather, I see something’s gone wrong but I fail to see why. Then I fall asleep, or half asleep, and my dreams come between me and my lesson, or my dreams turn into the lesson that I fail to understand. I sleep and wake up in another sleep. There’s a landscape of sleep through which I roam, with X tugging at my elbow. There are voices, and when the voices cease – they never cease – when the wind carries the voices away they are replaced by a low static, the white noise of the universe. Everything shudders, as when a truck rolls by. My nerves shudder, I shake myself to stop them. They shudder. I don’t sleep, yet I’m sleeping. If I listen closely, the sound of a heartbeat and a strange interior landscape, bubbling and gurgling. I don’t sleep, I slumber in the hollow of the night, trying not to listen to his snores, trying not to smell his bad breath, trying not to think. The insomniac tries to draw everything into himself while everything pushes him away. Even his own weariness disregards him.

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