If sleep is the cousin of death then I must be approaching immortality…

I can’t remember the last time I slept without waking or woke in the morning without feeling groggy. Mysterious ghostly figures dance just beyond my peripheral vision. Crickets swarm and chorus outside of my bedroom window; an elaborate plan to chase the sandman away because he is just as afraid of their shiny, prehistoric bodies as I am. Dozing in moments of stillness become my only means of rest…not sleep but rest. Resting seems grossly inadequate. Rest just pitches me into that perpetual state between asleep and awake where the brain is most imaginative and the body is too exhausted to execute any of those great ideas. Why is it that I’m most productive when I get the least amount of sleep?

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