You thrash at sleep. Careful, you will frighten it. Sleep is delicate. Except when it is not. When the back of the drain-dredge brings specters and memories of things you think happened to you. Then you wrap yourself in bulletproof blankets and hold on. Stare at the ceiling. If you stare at just the one spot, there is no way the memories can find you. You must be still. They sense movement. And weakness. And avarice.
The darkness is almost wet, the room is so black. But you can see a crack of streetlight and you wonder at the need for a brightened cone of disrespect. Disrespect to the night and the blackness and the memories which trail after you like a faithful dog, or one who has been struck and doesn't aim to let it happen twice.