“I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.”― David Benioff, City of Thieves
Some days I sleep 18 hours. Other days I can’t sleep at all, or at least not until the sun comes up. I don’t write because, even though my head is full, my body is at war with my medicine and my disease. This mad cycle has been going on for weeks, and my mental health is fracturing. I try not to remember that this is only one of many battles in my war – that train of thought tends to hurt morale.
Still, though, the floorboards of my skull are littered with rusted screws and dust bunnies. My monsters are much too large for a steamer trunk. They devour their failed prison in chunks, leaving pools of saliva around my bed before skulking back to the shadows of my room. So I look up – it’s where I was trained to believe God lives – and join a primal religion…“Sleep is God. Go worship.” ― Jim Butcher, Death Masks
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