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the very late show

Insomnia is a kind monster. It comes with the rustle of blankets, the sudden and single snore of my lover, the restlessness of imagining. It’s soft, sleeplessness. Half awake, I think of a poem, a word game, a need to do something I forgot.

Then, I’m awake. Instead of laying in bed, I prowl, watch some tube, and wonder when I’ll get a chance to rest. The worry sets in and then sleep never comes.

Problem is…problem is. Rotating guard duty. Change the place over night. I’m doin’ it ain’t I. Not in the morning, never in the morning. Another nap, perhaps, from 10 a.m. to noon. That gives me two solid hours of writing and researching. Yeah, that’s right. Work. I’ll get it done.

Morning. Tired, weak. Another justification for not doing anything. Lazy brain. I’m not going to nothing extraordinary. I wish I was a soldier. A guy trained to stay up and work. All night or the enemy will sneak in.

But then again, it already has. It came in through the cracks and whacked me on the back of the head. Not an evil blow, mind you, but one firm, loving, welcoming. Sleep disappeared like smoke. The racks of wine bottles clanking and shaking up there in my head. I come out here from time to time. The loneliness of fatigue. The crankiness, the willingness to cut short human relationships due to longing for sleep.

Distracted. Frustrated. Never to sleep again.

Problem is…problem is…

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