No Sleep for the Wicked

That would be me—wicked and sleep-free. Having said this, given humanity's gross overabundance of wickedness, I must cop to the fact that I've yet to break into so much as the Pee Wee leagues of debauchery, cruelty and/or criminality. 

Despite this, sleep savagely eluded me last night. I was finally able to sail into the land of Nod around 3AM and stayed there until well past sunrise. I like to take my long walk at around that time—hardly anyone's out, about and spewing COVID germs at that hour. Not only can I walk maskless (gasping for air for much of the ramble), I don't have to feel guilty about my horribly misanthropic nature. Win/win, eh? Totally, but not this morning.

Cake tried to set a good example for me by curling up at my side but, sadly, even the super soporific influence of his gentle snoring, warm, furry beastliness was not enough.

I see a nap in my future. Also, more exercise to tire me out and tempt Hypnos and Morpheus to my bedside.

Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time...

~ Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes