It's quickly approaching 4am and the open bedroom window beckons the sulking, staccato light from the mildly dysfunctional solitary streetlamp on the corner (with whom I half-halfheartedly commiserate; I'm feeling rather lonesome, dim and blinky myself, at the moment. You and me, Sr. Lamppost, poor us.). I am trapped in the waking world and visions of night's rest are but a bleak and tortured landscape.

O, deepest night, I pray you claim me before you've lost your grasp on the sky for the Sun is a brutal master, and while I will normally eagerly submit to its deliciously vicious lash, I fear to face that blazing flogging without a modicum of rest.

The rain's indecisive patter and the chill and moist wind come so close to lulling me into sweet beta wave machinations, but each moment I drift closer to my own internal, eternal sleep, I am jostled by deep rumblings of respiratory protest, screamed from tattered lungs, reflected by flooded sinuses, careening through the pulsing arch of pustular tonsils and tearing past lips worn from tissue's janitorial kiss.

Goddamned lungmonkeys. Tonight, you will have your way with me, but the morrow holds your suffering. Seriously. Tomorrow I Nyquil your asses back to the monolith.