there's those nights where you're just turning and turning and turning, a whirlwind of sleeplessness. the sheets get all tangled round your ankle, so you kick and thrash, but that just makes it worse. your eyes adjust to the darkness, so you just lay and stare at the ceiling...the wall...the rest of the room. slowly and deliberately, the first rays prod and poke at the curtains..."we're here. let us in." an hour passes and the violent ultraviolet starts. like a routine from three stooges, it jabs your eyes and slaps your face. you give up fighting the light, wrestling for sleep. loneliness is the only mistress who lays between these sheets.

this bed is not for sleeping.

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