It’s never obvious, when it’s going to be one of those nights. No shining star across the horizon. No status update. No headlights in the fog.
No warning.
It all seems innocuous enough at first; the feeling that there’s an itch that you just can’t scratch, or maybe the street lamp outside is just a bit too bright. Nothing helps of course, no amount of scratching, no shade pulling makes it go away. Cures don’t cure,treatments for the symptoms just dont work: everything you do just serves to make it obvious.
And so the seconds start counting themselves, one, two hundred, three thousand, four AM and nothing’s changed except the light from the moon, maybe, waning with your hope from the night.
Five, six now and the morning comes, grey, dreary, and without comes the noise of the morning, drowning out any chance of relief.
Twiddle your thumbs. Maybe brew an extra large pot. It’ll be another long day before it gets to night again. Maybe then your mind won’t get the better of you. Maybe then you’ll stay still for a second longer than you need. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.
Maybe you’ll lay awake again, listening for sounds you know you’ll never hear.
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