and at it again with a vengeance.
They are vermicious little twerps with cloying voices and wall eyes that hungrily follow me to both sides of the room at once…as I split into two halves in a desperate attempt to get the fuck away from their ever-prying inquiries.
Upon their own reluctant, embittered awakening to the day, they immediately demand to know precisely what time I went to sleep — and upon hearing my answer, their mouths curl into a terrifying leer, their eyes narrow greedily, and their lips move as if in unholy prayer…while their fingers shuffle and shift under the covers like spidery, nacreous-tipped abaci, and they slowly count out just exactly how many hours of sleep I got.
It is never enough.
For even if I somehow achieve their strongly suggested 17 hours at a stretch (usually possible only with absinthe, cat-gut sutures, and the blunt side of a pick-axe applied directly to the temporal lobe), they then begin to whine about “quality sleep”, and barometric pressure, and sensory deprivation tanks, and delivering oneself totally and completely — as a martyr to the cross — into the clutching claws of Morpheus…which is ironic, since they themselves rarely dream.
I dream, though…of a world where the fucking Sandman wears no nimbus…and night closes tight like a lid, and the stars splinter and shatter and rain down their icy cosmic guano forever onto the heads of those who would subdue me.